Martin            \ 

ochulcr 

Romer  Wilson      ij 

i  ? 

MARTIN  SCHULER 


MARTIN  SCHULER 


BY 


ROMER  WILSON.p^ewd,  . 


// 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1919 


HEIDELBERG 


483512 


MARTIN    SCHULER 

HEIDELBERG 
CHAPTER  I 

THERE  were  in  old  times,  before  Europe  was 
divided  amongst  the  children  of  Asia,  nine 
peahens.  These  peahens  were  in  reality  nine 
spellbound  damsels  of  surpassing  loveliness.  Eight 
of  them  were  fit  brides  for  the  princes  of  the  earth, 
but  the  ninth  was  far  lovelier  than  any  queen  or  prin- 
cess man  has  ever  imagined.  The  ninth  peahen,  who 
was  a  queen  in  her  own  right,  fell  in  love  nevertheless 
with  an  ordinary  prince,  the  youngest  son  of  a  king — 
antiquaries  suspect  that  this  prince  was  Joseph,  son  of 
Jacob — and  therefore  she  came  every  evening  to  perch 
in  the  branches  of  a  golden  apple-tree  that  grew  in  the 
garden  of  his  father's  palace.  This  tree  blossomed, 
bore  fruit,  and  yielded  it  all  in  the  same  night.  The 
peahen,  by  perseverance,  decoyed  the  young  prince 
into  the  garden  and,  after  revealing  to  him  her  true 
nature,  disappeared.  After  many  adventures  and  in 
spite  of  the  powers  of  evil,  the  prince  recovered  her 

3 


4  MARTIN  SCHtJLER 

and  they  were  married.     They  had  several  children 
who  became  kings  and  princes. 

Martin  Schiiler  read  this  tale  carefully  in  a  more 
elaborate  edition  than  the  above,  namely,  in  the  pleas- 
ant translation  made  from  the  Serbian  by  Madame 
Elodie  Mejatovitch.  He  was  searching  for  some  tale 
upon  which  to  erect  an  opera,  and  there  lay  around 
him  English,  French,  and  German  books  of  fairy- 
lore,  ancient  legends  and  ghost  stories.  Martin  Schii- 
ler was  very  ambitious  and  very  young.  At  twenty 
years  old  he  was  a  hot  Wagnerite  and  hoped,  if  pos- 
sible, to  create  a  counter-type  of  Tristan  and  Isolde 
and  one  or  two  Gotterdammerungs ;  his  heart  was  full 
of  the  passionate  fire  that  results  in  magnificent  if 
somewhat  commonplace  noise;  his  mind  yearned  to 
stretch  itself  in  wide  orchestration;  the  nerves  of  his 
ears  strained  to  balance  themselves  upon  flute-arias 
played  perfectly,  even  a  little  too  perfectly,  in  tune. 
His  musical  temperature  was  a  little  too  '^harp, 
whereas  that  of  most  people  is  decidedly  too  flat,  as 
we  say.  He  was  mad  for  perfection,  he  was  without 
experience,  he  was  swamped  by  the  master-writer  of 
Europe,  he  was  insane  for  precocity.  He  determined 
that  at  twenty-three  he  would  shake  the  world.  In 
his  immense  hurry  he  bought  several  books  of  fable 
and  mythology  because  operatic  music  seems  a  misfit 
on  the  back  of  truth.  Having  decided  at  all  costs  to  be 
original  he  read  three  or  four  books  on  Slav  legendary, 


HEIDELBERG  5 

but  the  only  one  he  could  comprehend  or  fasten  down 
to  any  Teutonic  idea  of  an  opera  was  that  which  con- 
tained the  story  of  the  nine  peahens.  Being  in  a  hurry, 
as  soon  as  he  discovered  anything  at  all  suitable  he 
stopped  searching  and  began  to  dream  with  the  book 
in  his  hand. 

Martin  Schiiler  lived  in  Heidelberg  with  his  parents, 
who  gave  him  an  attic  with  a  piano  in  it  where  he  could 
be  both  noisy  and  untidy.  The  late  afternoon  sun 
came  in  from  the  west  and  filled  the  attic  with  brown 
light.  It  had  a  dormer  window  and  a  sloping  ceiling, 
and  what  upright  wall  there  was  was  papered  with 
a  shiny  yellow  wall-paper  of  an  acanthus  leaf  design 
that  at  the  time  of  the  accession  of  the  third  Frederick 
had  been  new  and  mustard-colored.  It  was  now  mel- 
lowed with  years  and  mildewed  with  damp,  and  ought 
long  ago  to  have  suffered  the  fate  of  its  larger  portion 
that  lay  obscured  beneath  a  newer  design  in  the  sitting- 
room  downstaiis.  This  wall-paper  shone  in  the  sun- 
shine like  a  halo  about  Martin  and  his  piano,  and  his 
table  and  chairs  and  books  and  ink-pots  and  music 
paper.  He  sat  with  his  feet  on  the  table,  and  in  the 
middle  of  his  dreams  began  to  think  of  his  sister,  who 
wore  a  blouse  cut  square  at  the  neck  and  played  the 
piano  beautifully.  He  had  his  theories  of  inspiration 
like  everybody  else,  and  one  of  these  was  that  music 
inspired  music,  so  he  used  to  get  his  sister  to  play  to 
him.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  music  he  heard  sug- 


6  MARTIN  SCHULER 

gested  similar  music,  and  in  many  of  his  earlier  efforts 
Chopin  and  the  others  would  have  recognized  varia- 
tions of  airs  that  had  been  discarded  by  them  for  bet- 
ter variations.  Youth  is  a  period  of  disappointment. 
Young  men  find  when  they  first  begin  serious  work 
that  there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  and  that  it  is 
impossible  not  to  create  platitudes. 

Soon  Martin  began  to  want  his  sister  to  play  for 
him,  and  remained  in  this  condition  for  about  ten 
minutes  before  he  got  up  enough  energy  to  rouse 
himself  to  call  her.  Presently,  throwing  the  book 
aside,  he  got  out  of  his  comfortable  position  and  went 
to  the  door,  calling  in  a  guttural  voice,  "  Bertah ! 
Bertah !    Come  up  here !  " 

Bertha,  who  was  mending  socks  in  the  sitting-room, 
called  out,  "  I  am  coming,"  and  after  carefully  rolling 
up  the  gray  pair  which  she  was  darning  in  such  a  way 
that  the  darn  did  not  show,  she  went  upstairs  singing. 

"  The  wife  indeed  to  her  good-man." 

Like  her  brother  she  had  smooth  fawn  skin,  soft 
dark  eyes  with  scarcely  any  iris,  abundant,  rather 
coarse  dark  hair,  a  marked  chin  with  a  cleft  in  it,  a 
firm  Teutonic  mouth  and  a  round  head,  rather  forced 
forward  above  the  brows.  Martin  Schiller's  eves 
were  a  little  deeper  set,  his  mouth  was  more  mobile; 
besides,  he  had  a  shock  of  unkempt  hair,  whereas  his 


HEIDELBERG  7 

sister's  tresses  were  glossy  with  much  brushing  and 
lay  round  her  head  in  smooth  shining  plaits. 

"  Come  play,"  said  Martin,  as  his  sister's  plaits  ap- 
peared above  the  stairs.  Then  her  body  emerged  in 
its  cotton  house-frock,  and  he  went  to  the  piano  and 
kicked  two  chairs  into  position.  Bertha  never  refused 
to  play.  She  sat  down  immediately  and  set  off  into 
a  cascade  of  Chopin.  Martin  sat  by  her  like  a  music- 
master  and  said,  "Piano!"  "Allegro!"  "Forte!" 
and  occasionally  tapped  high  C  to  emphasize  his  mur- 
murs, but  she  took  no  notice  of  him. 

In  the  middle  of  a  Schumann  intermezzo  he  put 
his  big  hands  on  hers  and  stopped  her  sentimen- 
tally. 

"  Sweetest  sister,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  I  could  play 
as  you  do."  Bertha  smiled  with  delight.  Her  brother 
was  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

"  Martische,"  she  said,  "  you  would  if  you  had  not 
been  such  a  bad  little  boy." 

"  Never,"  he  said. 

He  did  play  very  badly.  Bertha  had  invented  the 
fable  that  the  fairies  had  stiffened  his  finger  tendons 
because  he  was  once  so  naughty  as  to  disbelieve  in 
them.  She  liked  teasing  him  about  it.  She  liked  being 
able  in  one  thing  to  excel  him,  to  excel  everybody  in 
the  house.  When  she  played  the  piano  everybody  in 
the  house  looked  up  to  her  and  she  liked  it.  She 
played  so  well  that  all  her  friends  thought  she  was  ex- 


8  MARTIN  SCHULER 

ceedingly  virtuous  and  clever,  and  Martin  played  so 
badly  that  all  her  friends  thought  him  good  for 
nothing  and  stupid.  Her  father  shared  this  idea,  and 
was  for  ever  goading  at  him  and  accusing  him  of  cow- 
like dullness,  but  he  indulged  him  to  a  certain  extent 
because  the  military  authorities  let  him  off  service 
and  he  was  considered  delicate.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  delicate,  but,  like  many  young  people,  he  had 
shown  slight  symptoms  of  heart  weakness  at  the  age 
of  examination. 

Martin  kept  his  hands  over  Bertha's  for  a  moment 
or  two,  and  went  on  talking.  "  I  have  had  to-day  a 
glorious  inspiration,"  he  said.  He  let  the  announce- 
ment sink  in,  and  seeing  a  sympathetic  look  of  ex- 
pectancy in  her  eyes,  leaned  over  the  back  of  his  chair 
and  twitched  Madame  Mejatovitch's  book  off  the 
table  into  his  hands. 

He  read  her  the  story  of  the  peahens. 

"  That  won't  make  an  opera,"  she  said. 

He  was  disappointed.  He  thought  her  slightly 
cruel,  as  a  small  boy  thinks  his  brother  is  cruel  when 
the  brother  assures  him  that  the  rock  he  is  standing 
on  is  not  a  mountain. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  he  said.  Though  neither  of 
them  knew  it,  her  opinion  was  his  criterion  of  judg- 
ment. In  those  days  his  critical  faculty  did  not  ex- 
tend to  his  own  productions;  he  depended  upon  his 
untrained  instinct,  and  it  depended  upon  the  opinion 


HEIDELBERG  9 

of  those  around  him,  and,  because  Bertha  was  ob- 
viously sane,  chiefly  upon  Bertha.  An  instinct  before 
it  is  sure  clings  to  sanity.  Thus  young  instincts  often 
regulate  themselves  by  the  works  of  acknowledged 
masters. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  repeated  Martin  sadly. 

"  You  must  mix  it  with  something  more  soHd,"  she 
said ;  "  allegorical,  I  think,  or  human.  You  will  never 
rise  to  deep  passions  on  that."  She  too  admired 
Wagner. 

Martin  put  up  a  defense.  "  You  are  right.  Bertha," 
he  said,  "but  I  could  make  something  very  beautiful 
and  lovely  out  of  it." 

"You  will  never  get  the  desired  deep  passion  out 
of  fairy  stories." 

"  I  could  make  the  prince  have  a  human  sweetheart 
also."  He  opened  the  book  and  made  the  pages  run 
like  a  little  cascade  between  his  finger  and  thumb.  "  Or 
could  I  not  imagine  passion  into  the  princess  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  very  difficult,"  said  Bertha ;  "  an  opera 
ought  to  touch  some  vital  string  of  the  heart  to  vibrate 
in  us  very  deeply.  Now  I  must  go  and  mend  your  all- 
too-many  socks." 

She  rose,  but  Martin  took  hold  of  the  skirt  of  her 
cotton  dress.  "  Stay,"  he  said,  "  play  again.  You 
have  caused  a  downfall  in  me;  it  is  only  right  you 
should  help  me  to  rise.  Play  to  me  while  I  look  out 
of  the  window  at  the  evening  which  will  presently 


10  MARTIN  SGHULER 

creep  over  Heidelberg.  Perhaps  I  shall  recover  my- 
self and  have  a  heavenly  thought." 
;  Bertha  teased  him.  "  Your  socks  have  real  holes 
that  must  be  filled  in.  Your  dreams  are  castles  in 
the  air;  no  one  will  live  in  them  so  they  need  never 
be  built." 

"I  have  heard  Mama  talk  like  that,"  he  said;  "it 
is  very  silly.  No  one  can  estimate  the  value  of  a  beau- 
tiful opera;  socks  cost  at  most  three  or  four  marks." 

"  Don't  begin  to  be  philosophical,"  said  Bertha ;  "  I 
know  all  about  that.  I  can  tell  you  everything  you  are 
about  to  say,  including  even  *  starvation  is  a  beautiful 
and  noble  death  if  it  produce  a  wonderful  work  of 
art.* "  Nevertheless,  she  was  obedient  by  nature,  and 
before  any  more  was  said  upon  this  controversial  sub- 
ject she  began  to  play.  She  began  with  a  tinkling 
melody  of  old  Rubinstein's,  which  is  certainly  worth 
less  than  a  pair  of  socks;  then  she  played  a  comic  song 
which  Martin,  who  had  begun  to  think,  thought  was 
worth  writing  because  of  the  disproportionate  riches 
it  brought  to  the  composer.  For  a  minute  he  was 
guilty  of  wishing  to  write  a  comic  song,  but  he  purged 
himself  quickly  of  the  desire.  She  played  a  waltz — 
not  a  dance  waltz,  a  concert  waltz — and  Martin  felt 
an  appropriate  and  lively  pleasure  creep  up  to  his 
head  where  it  turned  into  the  obvious  question,  was 
such  a  production  worth  all  the  strain  and  labor  and 
bad  temper  that  had  brought  it  to  perfection.     He 


HEIDELBERG  ii 

began  to  be  moral  and  to  balance  relative  worth  until 
she  annihilated  his  feelings  with  a  passionate  grand 
opera,  and  left  him  cold  and  chill  upon  an  early  work 
of  Claude  Debussy.  He  got  up  and  shouted,  "  Not 
that!  Not  that  inventor  of  seductive  titles."  She 
played  on,  however,  as  she  chose  until  she  fell  into  the 
most  stirring  music. 

Meanwhile  Martin  had  gone  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  over  the  river.  The  house  of  the  Schiilers 
was  up  one  of  the  steep  streets  of  the  town  below  the 
castle.  It  was  high  enough  up  to  see  a  long  way  from 
the  attic  window.  Martin  stood  in  the  window  quite 
alone  because  the  sloping  roof  and  the  walls  made  it 
into  a  little  box  where  one  could  isolate  oneself  even 
if  the  room  were  full  of  people.  He  gazed  out  over 
the  river  towards  the  north-west,  where  the  sun  had 
already  sunk  from  view.  The  window  faced  west, 
but  the  side  panes  looked  north  and  south;  thus  he 
could  see  if  he  chose  the  overmantling  darkness  of  the 
castle,  the  whole  town,  the  new  western  part  of  the 
town,  the  broad  river  gliding  away  to  the  west  to 
fold  itself  into  the  Rhine,  the  broad  Rhine  plain  be- 
yond stretching  west  and  north-west,  and,  close  in 
again,  due  north,  just  across  the  river,  the  vine  hills 
with  the  ruined  tower  and  the  philosopher's  way  creep- 
ing down  to  the  pretty  suburb  of  Neunheim,  where 
the  richer  people  built  their  houses.  The  Elector's 
Bridge  was  just  out  of  sight  beyond  the  roof.    Directly 


12  MARTIN  SCHULER 

below  him  the  old  town  lay  in  a  tumbled  heap.  It 
seemed  that  if  one  house  fell  or  moved  the  whole  lot 
would  rattle  like  bricks  into  the  river.  Splash!  what 
a  splash  if  the  whole  town  fell  into  the  river! 

"  The  whole  town  has  fallen  into  the  river !  The 
whole  town  has  fallen  into  the  river !  '*  somebody 
seemed  to  sing  in  clear,  tragic  notes.  Martin's  gaze 
was  fixed  on  the  far  horizon,  and  his  imagination 
seemed  to  see,  as  if  at  the  end  of  a  very  long  telescope 
that  reduced  objects  to  microscopic  dimensions,  a  little 
highly-colored  facsimile  of  the  old  town  falling  into 
a  little  river.  What  a  downfall!  How  the  people 
cried  like  a  thousand  souls  in  a  sinking  ship,  "  God, 
have  mercy  upon  us !  "  The  houses  toppled  forward 
and  crashed  into  the  river,  crushing  in  the  bridges. 
"  The  bridges  have  been  crushed  in:  the  town  has 
fallen  into  the  river."  The  people  wailed;  the  noise 
of  their  lamentations  rose  from  the  falling  ruins  like 
flames  from  a  fire.  "  How  shall  we  cross  ?  The 
bridges  are  crushed  in.  Our  dear  ones  are  drowned. 
Let  us  climb  up  to  the  castle.  That  too  falls.  Our 
dear  ones  are  drowned  in  the  river.  Lord,  have  mercy 
upon  us!  It  is  the  end  of  the  world — down  on  your 
knees — it  is  the  end  of  the  world.  Say  the  Litany." 
What  an  end  for  an  opera  with  the  deep,  sonorous 
music  of  the  Litany!  Martin's  thoughts  culminated 
in  this  thought.  His  spirits  had  revived.  He  cried 
out  joyously  to  his  sister:  "Little  sister,  play  no 


HEIDELBERG  13 

more/*  and  pushing  her  off  the  chair  played  out  the 
music  he  had  heard. 

"  The  whole  town  has  fallen  into  the  river!  "  He 
thumped,  and  strummed  a  good  deal  more  besides,  in- 
cluding a  motif  for  the  Litany. 

"That  is  better,"  said  his  sister;  "but  you  must 
begin." 

"  I  shall  begin  with  the  peahens,"  he  said ;  "  they 
shall  entrance  the  princes  of  the  town;  all  the  people 
will  go  to  the  bad  because  of  them,  and  then  God 
with  one  kick  of  His  foot  will  send  all  the  town  roll- 
ing into  the  river."  Martin  smiled  and  almost  licked 
his  lips  at  the  magnificent  thought  of  the  Deity  pro- 
pelling Heidelberg  into  the  Neckar  with  His  foot. 

Bertha  was  practical.  "  Who  will  write  the  poem, 
brother?  "  she  said. 

Martin  was  a  little  irritated  to  discover  that  she 
never  imagined  he  would  do  the  whole  thing  alone, 
but  he  answered,  "  Werner  and  I  together.  Fll  sketch 
it  out  and  run  to  Werner  at  once.  He  will  see  eye 
to  eye  with  me." 

"  How  ill  poor  Werner  looks,"  said  Bertha.  "  I*d 
like  to  buy  him  a  good  dinner  every  day  till  he  gets 
fat." 

"He*s  diseased.  He*ll  never  get  fat — ^besides,  he 
never  has  an  appetite." 

"  I  expect  he's  trained  himself  to  starve  because  it 
is  more  convenient,"  said  Bertha,  getting  up  from  her 


14  MARTIN  SCHULER 

chair.  "Poor  Werner!  Mother  and  I  were  grieved 
last  time  you  brought  him  to  supper.  We  pressed 
sausage  and  chicken  and  soup  and  cakes  upon  him, 
and  father  urged  him  to  take  beer,  but  he  only  drank 
a  little  wine  and  sat  there  amusing  us  all  with  his 
clever  remarks,  and  eating  nothing,  like  an  unbidden 
guest.  Mother  likes  Werner,  and  so  do  I.  He  looks 
old,  doesn't  he?  I  should  say  he  was  thirty-six  or 
seven.  I  wonder  why  he  doesn't  make  any  money 
with  his  clever  brains." 

"  He's  a  little  bit  queer,"  said  Martin.  "  He  needs 
a  publisher,  you  know ;  he  lets  his  works  lie  in  a 
drawer  and  forgets  them  directly  they  are  finished, 
and  if  I  or  any  of  his  friends  urge  him  to  publish 
something,  he  says,  *  Yes,  perhaps,'  and  puts  it  back 
into  the  drawer  and  forgets  it  again.  I  don't  believe 
he's  so  old  as  you  think.  He  can't  be  more  than 
twenty-seven,  because  he  passed  his  examinations  when 
I  was  thirteen  or  so." 

"  He  looks  so  clever,"  said  Bertha  again ;  "  he  re- 
minds me  a  little  bit  of  Dante." 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  Martin,  lighting  his  lamp,  "  he 
is  not  at  all  like  Dante.  He  hasn't  Dante's  nobility 
of  feature,  nor  his  nose;  that's  because  he  is  so  thin. 
Don't  compare  moles  to  mice  because  they  are  small 
and  have  fur." 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Bertha.  "  I  hope  Werner  will 
agree  to  do  it." 


HEIDELBERG  15 

"  There's  no  doubt,"  said  Martin,  who,  nevertheless, 
had  a  sHght  qualm  of  doubt.     "  He's  very  obliging." 

Bertha  went  to  the  door.  "  Good  luck,"  she  said 
as  she  opened  it  and  went  out.  She  stuck  her  head 
in  again  to  ask  if  he  were  going  that  night. 

"  Immediately,"  said  Martin ;  "  I  shan't  sleep  unless 
I  do." 

Bertha  went  down  the  dark  stairs  to  the  kitchen, 
where  her  mother  was  making  herb  soup  for  supper, 
and  set  about  to  prepare  a  ragout  of  mutton  and 
chicken's  legs.  She  cut  up  a  terrible  lot  of  onions, 
until  the  tears  ran  out  of  her  eyes  and  the  pungent 
odor  of  bruised  onions  rose  through  the  house  to  the 
attic  where  Martin  sat.  The  Schiilers  owned  the  top 
part  of  the  house;  the  two  lower  floors  belonged  to 
somebody  else.  As  Bertha  cut  onions  she  thought  of 
Martin  and  his  opera  and  his  aspirations.  It  seemed 
very  unlikely  a  Wagner  would  emanate  from  their 
house,  but  what  of  that?  Musicians  had  to  be  born 
and  brought  up  somewhere.  She  removed  the  coarse 
skin  from  another  onion.  It  seemed  to  her  that  an 
immense  time  must  elapse  before  Martin  completed 
an  opera,  and  that  a  gulf  must  be  crossed  before  he 
became  famous.  He  must  surely  lose  his  boyhood, 
change  the  aspect  of  his  countenance,  vanish,  and  re- 
turn a  stranger  related  to  nobody,  before  he  could 
take  a  place  among  that  group  of  creatures  called  rich 
and  famous  men.     She  bent  to  the  onion  basket  for 


i6  MARTIN  SCHULER 

yet  another  onion,  and  something  pricked  her  breast. 
She  knew  what  it  was :  it  was  the  corner  of  her  lover's 
last  letter.  Her  lover's  name  was  Herman  Mark- 
heim,  and  he  was  surely  the  most  wonderful  young 
man  on  earth.  He  had  a  small  government  position, 
and  Bertha  had  secured  his  affections  by  giving  him 
sweet  glances  and  "  thank  yous  "  every  time  he  turned 
over  her  music  for  her  at  soirees.  She  moved  herself 
inside  her  clothes  until  the  letter  was  comfortable 
without  putting  down  the  onion  or  the  onion  knife, 
but  her  thoughts  turned  to  marriage  and  dowries,  bed- 
linen  and  the  slow  progress  of  time.  All  Bertha's 
family  were  very  fond  of  her  and  valued  her.  She 
accepted  their  valuation,  though  it  was  too  low.  No- 
body but  Markheim  ever  saw  her  true  worth,  and  he 
forgot  that  two  years  after  their  marriage,  but  she 
was  happy  and  uninjured  because  she  always  saw  her- 
self as  others  saw  her,  and  not  as  she  was. 


CHAPTER  II 

MARTIN  made  a  rough  draft  of  the  opera, 
with  the  words  and  tune  that  came  to  him 
at  the  window  fully  inserted.  He  was  anxious, 
agitated,  and  delighted ;  his  heart  leaped  continually  in 
long  beats,  his  eyes  strained,  his  fingers  hastened,  his 
hands  shook.  He  wanted  to  capture  his  memories ;  he 
wanted  to  complete  his  idea;  he  knew  that  if  he  com- 
pleted the  idea  the  opera  would  follow  in  due  time.  He 
put  down  all  he  could — the  destruction  of  the  city,  the 
counter-motif  of  constructive  love : 

"Ah,  beautiful  love  why  adornest  thou  only  the  apple-tree?" 

He  emptied  his  mind;  he  drained  his  imagination;  he 
exhausted  the  forces  that  he  had  acquired  from  the 
sunset  and  his  sister's  piano-playing;  but  instead  of 
falling  into  despair  when  he  could  think  no  more,  he 
rose  up  happy  because  he  was  satisfied  in  his  emptiness 
that  he  had  taken  out  something  vital,  something  which 
to-morrow  or  the  next  day  would  be  added  to,  some- 
thing which  would  act  upon  his  mind  and  stimulate  in 
him  ideas,  desires,  and  thoughts,  and  so  force  itself 
to  its  own  completion. 

Martin  got  his  soft  hat  off  the  floor  and  paused 

17 


i8  MARTIN  SCHULER 

before  he  put  it  on  his  head  to  gaze  again  at  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  peahens.  He  seemed  to  hear  actors  and 
actresses  singing  the  beautiful  unwritten  tunes.  He 
saw  himself  applauded  as  he  took  a  curtain  on  the 
first  night.  All  the  usual  dreams  of  future  fame  came 
into  his  head.  He  put  on  his  hat,  took  up  the  manu- 
script and  read  portions  of  it  again  as  he  stood  by  the 
lamp.  He  smiled  because  it  was  so  good.  He  held  it 
very  close  to  the  lamp,  and  the  light  on  the  white  paper 
dazzled  his  eyes  so  that  when  he  looked  up  he  saw 
green  and  yellow  blurs.  He  put  the  manuscript  into 
his  coat  and  walked  downstairs  as  young  men  do — 
clamp,  clamp,  straight  on  his  heels.  The  yellow  and 
green  blurs  swam  before  him  down  to  the  street  door, 
where  they  were  dispelled  by  the  light  from  the  street 
lamp  just  above  it.  He  lit  his  pipe  and  sauntered  round 
to  see  Werner. 

The  street  in  which  Werner  lived  was  dark  and  the 
houses  were  old  and  shabby.  Sentimental  Britons 
would  have  considered  it  vandalism  to  rebuild  them 
because  they  were  ancient  and  picturesque,  though 
millions  of  generations  of  house-fleas  and  worse  pests 
had  seen  the  light  there,  and  mice  abounded.  It  was 
unlikely  they  would  be  rebuilt  for  many  years,  for  the 
rich  people  of  the  town  were  moving  to  the  west  end, 
and  the  landlords  had  a  sufficient  stream  of  low-class 
lodgers  to  make  optimistic  hopes  of  long  leases  still 
worth  holding.    Landlords  will  allow  bad  and  worth- 


HEIDELBERG  '9 

less  houses  to  stand  for  ever  all  on  the  chance  that  some 
day  some  one  will  offer  a  fabulous  rent  for  an  unending 
term  of  years.  "  I  am  sure  to  get  an  offer  next  year," 
they  say;  "  I'll  let  it  stand  a  year  longer."  "  This  is 
no  time  for  building.  House  property  is  the  devil " ; 
and  thus  old  houses  get  older,  and  poor  districts  get 
poverty-stricken,  until  some  enterprising  man  with 
pyramids  of  red-brick  at  his  command  commits  those 
abhorred  acts  of  vandalism  which  ruin  the  town,  de- 
stroy the  taste  and  individuality  of  the  working  man, 
provide  good  and  clean  homes  and  ensure,  as  far  as  a 
mere  bricklayer  can  ensure,  the  health  of  a  future 
generation.  When  the  red  brick  begins  to  mellow  and 
the  roof  to  leak,  the  landlord  comes  into  his  own  again 
— those  pleasant  years  of  procrastination — and  one  can 
annoy  him  by  quoting  apt  proverbs  all  containing  the 
word  "  time." 

Martin  got  to  the  door  of  the  house  where  Werner 
dwelt.  A  carved  face  with  an  evil  leer  grinned  from 
over  the  lintel.  The  door  itself  was  sparsely  decorated 
with  ancient  and  inferior  patterns  and  the  door  latch 
was  an  example  in  wrought  iron  of  the  bad  taste  that 
was  considered  good  taste  in  Heidelberg  two  or  three 
hundred  years  ago.  Martin  pushed  open  the  door  and 
entered  the  house.  He  shut  it  behind  him  and  found 
himself  in  total  darkness.  Werner  provided  no  lamp 
for  chance  visitors,  nor  did  the  other  tenants,  because 
there  were  no  other  tenants.    He  lived  alone  there,  and 


20  MARTIN  SCHULER 

he  only  rented  one  room  at  the  top.  Martin  stumbled 
up  the  bare  wooden  stairs,  cursing  softly.  By  the  time 
he  reached  Werner's  door  his  hands  were  begrimed 
with  feehng  along  walls  coated  with  damp  dust,  and 
he  was  out  of  breath  with  the  long  struggle  upwards 
and  the  fear  of  hitting  his  head  against  some  beam  or 
corner.  He  knocked  on  Werner's  door  with  his 
knuckles,  and  as  the  door  seemed  cleaner  than  the 
walls  he  rubbed  off  what  dirt  he  could  on  it.  A  voice 
growled  for  him  to  enter.  He  went  in.  The  feeble 
light  of  two  candles  almost  dazzled  him.  He  blinked, 
and  stretched  out  grimy  paws  to  Werner,  who  actually 
got  up  to  welcome  him,  but  refused  his  outstretched 
hands.  Werner  was  quite  fond  of  Schiiler,  and  thought 
that  perhaps  he  might  make  a  name  for  himself  some 
day.  He  never  said  so  or  accorded  him  any  familiarity 
on  that  ground;  but  he  was  quite  fond  of  Schiiler  and 
thought  better  of  him  than  he  did  of  most  people,  and 
Schiiler  thought  well  of  him.  He  made  Schiiler  sit 
down,  adjusted  the  candles  so  that  he  could  see  his  face, 
and  then  sat  down  himself  in  a  chair  that  nobody  had 
ever  known  him  to  yield  to  anybody.  He  wore  a  ragged 
red  cotton  dressing-gown  bordered  with  a  bad  Paisley 
design,  a  pair  of  check  trousers  made  in  France  in  the 
year  1890,  and  an  unclean  cotton  shirt.  These  clothes 
had  been  his  father*s,  and  for  eight  years,  since  that 
gentleman's  decease,  their  inheritor  had  worn  them  as 
a  boudoir  suit  to  save  his  cloth  clothes.    Werner  was 


HEIDELBERG  21 

twenty-eight  years  old;  he  was  ugly  and  diseased. 
Bertha's  remark  that  he  was  like  Dante  probably  meant 
he  was  thin  and  foreign  looking;  his  nationality  was 
not  to  be  guessed  from  his  face,  for  when  his  beard 
was  long  he  resembled  a  cadaverous  Frenchman,  and 
in  those  periods  when,  as  at  present,  he  was  clean 
shaven,  he  resembled  only  himself,  or,  as  one  of  his 
friends  said,  all  the  thin  men  in  the  world. 

Some  beer  was  produced,  and  Martin  began  to  open 
out  his  opera.  Werner  pretended  to  be  bored,  and 
Martin  prevented  himself  from  becoming  chilled  with 
the  greatest  difficulty.  When  the  panegyric  was  over, 
Werner  muttered  "  Wagneresque  "  between  his  teeth. 
In  Werner's  company  Martin  felt  a  little  ashamed  of 
admiring  Wagner,  so  he  said,  "  No,  not  the  idea :  it 
is  heartfelt."  Werner  still  appeared  to  be  bored,  and 
showed  no  signs  of  longing  to  write  the  poem  about 
which  Martin  had  hinted  very  broadly,  for  now  he  was 
in  the  Presence,  and  the  Presence  was  so  unsympa- 
thetic Martin  found  it  impossible  to  say  outright, 
"  Look,  my  friend,  here  is  your  chance  for  fame. 
Compose  the  verse  for  my  future  opera !  " 

Werner  sat  and  looked  at  Martin,  and  Martin  sat 
and  blinked  at  Werner,  and  decided  that  he  must  take 
him  out  and  give  him  some  more  beer,  so  he  invited 
him  to  rouse,  change  his  clothes,  and  come  and  have 
supper  with  him  up  by  the  castle.  Werner  acceded, 
and  shortly  got  up  and  put  on  respectable  garments, 


=22  MARTIN  SCHULER 

drew  water  from  a  tap  outside  his  door,  and  threatened 
to  go  to  hell  before  he'd  go  out  with  such  a  dirty- 
pawed  dog  as  Martin.  Martin  washed  gladly,  and  said 
he  too  would  go  to  hell  before  he'd  negotiate  Werner's 
stairs  again  without  a  light.  Thus  they  became  quite 
moderately  gay  and  jolly — Martin  in  spite  of  the  bur- 
den of  immediate  fame,  and  Werner  in  spite  of  his  poor 
and  miserable  circumstances. 

There  was  no  moon  that  night,  and  the  stars  were 
brilliant.  Martin  commented  on  this  as  they  walked 
up  the  exceedingly  steep  hill  to  the  castle. 

"  It  is  always  so  without  a  moon,"  he  said.  "  The 
moon  makes  the  stars  pale,  does  it  not?  And  puts 
some  of  them  out.  I  like  these  cloudless  dark  nights. 
Look  at  the  Great  Bear.  I  only  know  her  and  the 
Plough  by  sight." 

"That  is  the  Belt,"  said  Werner,  as  Martin  called 
it  the  Plough ;  "  and  over  there  are  the  twins,  Gemini, 
Lovely  Children.  I  believe  so,  at  least,  but  I  am  not 
an  astronomer." 

"  Sometimes  I  wish,"  continued  Martin,  "  that  the 
stars  were  all  planets,  and  sometimes  that  they  were 
all  fixed." 

"  I  dream  of  collisions  in  space  when  Martin 
Schiiler  says  let  all  the  stars  be  planets !  "  Werner 
actually  began  to  laugh. 

As  they  ascended  the  hill  the  last  red  light  of  sunset 
was  fading  into  purple  in  the  west. 


HEIDELBERG  23 

"  The  sun  takes  so  long  to  go  these  summer  nights," 
said  Martin. 

"Spring,"  said  Werner.  "May  surely  is  spring; 
call  it  spring.  Why  do  you  hurry  the  year  over  so 
quickly  ?  " 

"  Summer  begins  for  me,"  said  Martin,  "  when  the 
trees  are  green." 

"  And  for  me  when  the  heat  stenches.  The  smell 
of  the  heat  in  the  street  is  horrible." 

"  I  generally  take  a  walking  expedition  with  a  few 
friends,"  said  Martin.  "  Dark  forests,  the  Schwarz- 
wald,  and  the  little  lakes  up  there  are  cool  and  full  of 
dreams  and  also  of  amusements  for  swimmers  and 
fishers  and  stone-throwers.  We  take  rucksacks  and 
sleep  under  the  trees.  On  some  days  the  girls  come  by 
train  and  we  have  fun." 

"Fun  with  girls,"  said  Werner;  "that  sounds  nice. 
You  like  girls,  of  course.  You  are  young,  and  have 
desires.  Which  is  it  you  like  best — the  girls  or  the 
desires  ?  " 

Martin  laughed.  "  Oh,  the  girls ;  quite  frankly, 
the  girls,"  he  said.  "  We  have  great  fun,  of  course — • 
games — and  they  scream  and  we  are  all  jolly." 

"  You  all  like  showing  off  your  arms  and  legs  and 
your  wits,  and  your  naughty  stories,  and  immediately 
you  see  a  sign  of  the  moon  you  become  sentimental 
and  pair  off  each  one  with  the  girl  who  has  chosen  him, 
and  kiss  perhaps." 


24  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Martin.  "  It's  fun,  I  can  tell  you." 
He  blushed,  because  he  remembered  the  first  experi- 
ences of  love,  and  they  were  not  very  far  away;  they 
had  hardly  receded  behind  the  veil  of  shame  to  that 
far  place  where  they  arouse  no  feeling. 

They  were  nearing  the  Restoration-place  up  by  the 
Castle,  and  could  see  each  other  by  the  glow  of  its 
many  little  lights,  which  shone  out,  making  a  multi- 
colored blaze. 

"  Red,  white,  and  blue  is  an  ugly  combination  of 
colors,"  said  Martin,  who  seemed  bound  to  make  ordi- 
nary conversation. 

"  Yes,"  said  Werner,  "  especially  when  the  light 
inside  is  yellow.  Why,  can  you  tell  me,  do  places  of 
public  entertainment  always  oppress  themselves  with 
jewels  like  a  Dowager  Grand  Duchess  ?  "  He  said  this 
mincingly. 

Martin  laughed.  "  I  am  boring  you  with  silly  con- 
versation," he  said.  "  I  am  very  hot  and  excited  inside. 
Here,  Tve  given  myself  away.  You  would  take  the 
meat  out  of  a  live  crab,  Werner." 

"  There  are  worse  occupations,"  said  Werner, 
meaningly. 

"  I  don't  see  the  point,"  said  Martin,  but  Werner 
forced  it  in  with  his  eyes,  and  Martin  blushed  and 
almost  said  aloud,  "  Better,  you  mean,  than  taking 
poetry  out  of  live  poets,"  but  he  covered  his  thoughts 
with  an  exclamation  about  their  proximity  to  the 


HEIDELBERG  25 

restaurant.  They  talked  no  more,  and  Martin  ordered 
a  table  quite  close  to  the  parapet,  whence  the  best  view 
can  be  had.  This  especial  supper-place  was  not  his 
haphazard  choice.  He  chose  it  because  of  its  height 
above  the  city,  and  because  one  could  watch  the  wind- 
ing of  the  river;  in  a  word,  because  of  its  noble  sur- 
roundings, for  he  was  aware  that  in  noble  surround- 
ings a  man  often  hears  better. 

Presently  they  were  seated  face  to  face  at  a  white 
table,  and  Martin  ordered  sausage  and  ham,  sauer- 
kraut, and  beer  for  two,  and  then,  in  the  last  faint 
glow  of  the  May  twilight,  set  himself  the  task  of 
warming  Werner  up. 

The  beautiful  night  had  stolen  over  the  town,  and 
far  below  on  the  black  river  lights  sparkled.  Lights 
shone  in  the  houses  and  at  the  theater  and  in  the 
streets,  a  universe  of  stars  fallen  to  earth.  It  was 
easy  to  pick  out  the  constellations  of  the  Bahnhof,  of 
the  market-place,  and  of  the  principal  wharves.  Mar- 
tin felt  like  a  dweller  in  Uranus,  remote  and  yet  a 
companion  of  the  planets,  as  he  sat  with  Werner  in 
the  multicolored  star  of  the  Restoration-place.  He 
said  so  to  Werner,  who  said  he  was  far-fetched,  and 
rather  taken  up  with  the  stars  that  evening.  Martin 
ignored  him  and  pointed  out  the  theater,  and  what  he 
imagined  was  the  fencing  schools,  and  what  he  thought 
were  the  streets  in  which  he  and  Werner  lived  respec- 
tively, and  finally  made  a  general  remark  about  the 


26  MARTIN  SCHULER 

equality  of  all  places  after  dark  when  they  were  lit  by 
municipal  gas,  which  was  the  same  for  all.  Werner 
told  him  that  if  his  opera  was  as  unoriginal  as  his 
remarks  it  would  be  practically  worthless.  Werner 
was  in  a  tedious  mood.  The  minor  poets  often  assume, 
and  sometimes  suffer,  tedious  moods;  they  are  a  part 
of  the  divine  uneasiness  that  afflicts  genius.  One  is 
tempted  to  believe  that  great  poets  are  always  in  a 
state  of  uneasiness  and  unrest,  always  unhappy,  un- 
bearable, and  morose,  always  top  heavy,  with  no  sense 
of  balance,  with  eyes  straining  into  heaven  unmindful 
of  the  lesser  things  of  life.  Great  poets  should  be 
selfish  and  exacting,  should  have  strange  habits  and 
wear  strange  clothes,  should  have  an  excess  of  one 
virtue  or  one  vice,  should  thrill  the  lucky  individuals 
who  hear  them  on  those  rare  occasions  when  they 
speak.  They  have  no  familiar  friends  and  no  rela- 
tions ;  nobody  calls  them  "  Dick,"  or  "  Toto,"  or 
"Willie";  they  address  nobody  as  "old  boy,"  "old 
girl,"  or  "kiddy."  As  all  poets  are  the  same  to  the 
crowd,  all  poets  are  great  poets,  more  or  less  readable, 
more  or  less  comprehensible.  Some  people  are  so 
clever  that  they  read  Goethe  and  Browning  and  Dante 
— at  least  so  people  say.  One  has  to  be  clever  to  un- 
derstand the  incomprehensibles.  Anybody  can  under- 
stand Shakespeare:  they  teach  it  in  all  the  schools; 
they  teach  Goethe  too,  but  only  clever  people  care  for 
him  and  keep  up  with  him  afterwards.    Nobody  ever 


HEIDELBERG  vj 

met  a  poet  in  the  flesh.  There  are  not  grades  of  poets 
but  those  we  understand  we  like,  and  as  time  goes  on 
and  we  like  the  more  difficult  and  at  last  the  most 
difficult,  those  left  behind  fall  from  grace  and  become 
bad  poets,  poor  poets,  minor  poets.  Such  things  do 
not  really  exist:  they  are  creatures  of  the  minds  of 
clever  men — men  who  only  understand  higher  mathe- 
matics, invent  morse-codes,  read  Arabic,  and  know 
exactly  without  the  aid  of  a  dictionary  what  the  Bible 
means  in  the  original,  and  what  German  expressions 
Homer  intended  when  he  wrote  Greek. 

Looked  at  from  the  point  of  view  of  clever  men, 
Werner  was  a  minor  poet.  He  had  to  work  uncom- 
monly hard  to  produce  anything  worth  reading.  He 
had  an  acute  sense  of  rhythm,  and  would  sweat  for 
hours  to  produce  lines  to  satisfy  his  sensitive  nerves. 
Sometimes  he  had  remarkable  successes,  which  few 
people  appreciated  because  passion  and  ideas  are  chiefly 
sought  for  in  poetry.  His  efforts  mostly  resulted  in  a 
tour  de  force,  but  after  exerting  his  intellect  like  a 
mathematician  for  several  hours  to  complete  some  ode, 
he  would  suddenly  sigh,  relax,  and  scribble  in  half- 
consciousness  a  really  good  lyric.  He  wrote  twelve 
lyrics  worth  reading,  but  these  were  the  fruit  of  im- 
mense toil,  though  they  dropped  off  the  branches  of  his 
labor  like  ripe  peaches,  for  they  only  came  into  being 
after  long  hours  of  conscious  work  upon  something 
entirely  different.     His  works  after  his  death  were 


28  MARTIN  SCHULER 

admired  by  philologists,  musicians  of  the  better  class, 
who  got  a  good  many  rhythmic  ideas  out  of  him,  and 
schoolmasters,  who  found  him  pure  enough  to  read  to 
their  pupils  as  an  example  of  modern  poetry.  His 
lyrics  appeared  in  anthologies,  and  thus  misquotations 
of  them  spread  to  tombstones,  Christmas  greeting 
cards,  and  birthday  books,  for  they  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  be  clear  and  easy  to  understand  if  one  did  not 
care  to  see  what  they  really  meant.  While  he  was 
alive  he  never  published  anything,  partly  because  he 
was  too  busy  and  partly  because  he  was  too  idle  to 
struggle  with  publishers;  thus  he  remained  poor  and 
unknown  till  he  died.  He  was  also  a  snob,  because  he 
enjoyed  privately  all  the  posthumous  appreciation  that 
his  creditors  got. 

Werner  drank  out  of  a  mug  adorned  with  the  arms 
of  Bavaria,  and  looked  at  Martin  through  the  angle 
formed  by  the  lid  and  the  top  of  the  mug.  His  gray 
eyes  were  summing  up  Martin  Schiiler;  he  was  in  a 
contrary  mood  and  prepared  to  resist  Martin's  enthu- 
siasm, but  he  was  a  little  flattered  because  a  young 
man  desired  to  associate  him  with  a  dreamed-of  master- 
piece. He  continued  to  assume  boredom  and  to  drink 
measured  drinks  out  of  his  mug  and  to  say  very  little. 
He  watched  Martin  finish  his  sauerkraut  and  sausage; 
he  watched  him  open  his  mouth  to  insert  the  beer  mug ; 
he  watched  him  put  the  empty  beer  mug  down  and 
turn  on  his  seat  away  from  the  table ;  he  watched  him 


HEIDELBERG  29 

adopt  towards  the  night  the  attitude  of  a  night- 
enchanted  young  man,  and  then  pause  and  dream  a  lit- 
tle before  he  spoke. 

"  On  such  a  uight/'  said  Martin  at  length,  sweeping 
his  arms  wide  to  indicate  it,  "  the  beautiful  peahen 
first  disclosed  herself  to  the  amazed  prince.  He  lay 
on  his  couch  beneath  the  golden  apple-tree,  and,  lo! 
in  the  branches  appeared  a  shining  light.  O  whence 
dost  thou,  thou  bright  illumination,  shall  be  the  note 
for  the  prince.  O  whence  dost  thou,  thou  bright  illu- 
mination. Do  you  hear  the  movement  ?  It  came  into 
my  mind  just  this  moment  as  the  moon  came  over 
yonder  hill.  The  peahen  was  as  beautiful  as  the  moon. 
I  feel  the  enchantment;  I  feel  the  movement.  Don't 
you  feel  it  also  ?  " 

"  Not  very  clearly,"  said  Werner,  in  a  voice  of  clay; 
but,  nevertheless,  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  night  over 
the  river  and  the  silence  of  the  May  moon  and  the 
darkness  of  the  vine-clad  hill  that  had  just  slid  from 
before  her  face  and  the  youth  of  Martin  and  the  age 
of  Heidelberg  were  beginning  to  enter  his  mind  and 
steal  away  his  cynicism.  For  all  that  he  remained  un- 
gracious in  manner ;  he  was  not  the  one  to  give  himself 
away  when  he  felt  a  little  romantic. 

Martin  shifted  his  chair  round  the  table  till  he  faced 
the  moon  and  could  at  the  same  time  rest  his  arms 
on  the  table.  The  moon  stood  opaque  and  unluminous 
in  the  deep  purple  of  the  lower  heavens,  roimd,  orange, 


30  MARTIN  SCHULER 

and  immense,  seen  through  the  smell  of  new  leaves  and 
May  flowers  that  rose  in  mist  from  the  hills.  The 
hills  stretched  like  a  bow  in  the  darkness  along  the 
river  as  it  flowed  under  them  from  the  east.  The 
heavy  moon  cast  no  shadows  upon  them  and  sent  no 
shafts  of  light  between  their  trees.  Heavy  and  silent 
she  stood,  while  the  horizon  sank  slowly  beneath  her, 
sank  as  slowly  as  time.  Slowly  the  veils  fell  from  her 
— ^the  veil  of  mist,  the  veil  of  heat,  the  veil  of  the 
work  of  the  day  that  floats  up  from  the  world  at  sun- 
set and  is  dispelled  by  the  night  breezes.  Slowly  she 
became  bright,  swift,  and  cold :  a  light  giver,  a  shadow 
maker,  diminished  in  size,  the  naked  spirit  of  the  red 
veiled  disk.  The  two  men  at  the  little  glittering  res- 
taurant watched  her  slow  transformation,  and  one 
saw  in  his  mind  a  lovely  garden  with  green  grass  and 
jewelled  flowers,  and  in  the  garden  a  golden  tree,  and 
in  the  tree  a  moon  shining  upon  a  bewildered  prince 
clothed  in  mediaeval  clothing;  the  other  saw  nothing 
but  what  was  before  his  eyes.  He  became  aware  of  it 
and  lost  himself  in  it  and  went  away  from  his  body 
across  the  river,  and  for  one  short  instant  held  the 
moon  in  his  hands.  He  fell  to  earth  in  a  distant  place 
where  the  moon  shone  white  upon  white  mountains  in 
an  indigo  sky,  he  stood  one  instant  in  the  antithesis  of 
gold  and  purple,  and  returned  in  the  wink  of  an  eye  to 
gaze  from  where  he  sat  with  brooding  memory  upon 
the  wide  expanse  that  seemed  large  enough  to  be  the 


HEIDELBERG  31 

world,  and  the  ascending  moon  that  now  seemed  dis- 
tant as  the  remotest  star. 

Martin  continued  to  talk,  and  Werner  awoke  from 
his  moon-memories  to  the  sound  of  a  well-fed  young 
man's  voice.  Dreams  were  rare  with  him,  and  he  felt 
peevish  with  the  voice  for  dispelling  them. 

"  The  princess  descends  from  the  tree,  and  then  of 
course  there  is  a  love  scene,"  said  Martin. 

"  That  is  very  banal,"  said  Werner,  but  all  the  same, 
directly  he  became  aware  of  what  Martin's  words 
meant,  he  received  an  idea  for  a  love  song,  or  rather, 
saw  an  opportunity  for  introducing  an  idea  that  had 
long  vaguely  haunted  his  mind. 

"If  you  prefer,"  said  Martin,  who  felt  suddenly 
angry,  "  there  shall  be  a  quarrel  with  swears  and 
curses." 

"No,"  said  Werner;  "don't  be  stupid.  It  is  a 
very  nice  idea.  The  descent  from  the  tree,  and  love  to 
follow,  quite  after  the  classical  example.  I'll  do  my 
best  for  you,  but  Christ  Himself  knows  all  love  scenes 
are  dull." 

"I'll  ask  Monk,"  growled  Martin;  "he'll  do  it." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Werner,  "  don't  do  that." 

Martin  remembered  he  was  only  twenty,  and  saw 
in  Werner's  attitude  some  sort  of  patronage,  which 
did  not  really  exist.    He  felt  resentful. 

"  You  are  a  superior  animal " — he  muttered 
*'  superior," 


32  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Werner;  "I  want  to  write  this 
poem  for  you."  Martin  had  made  his  point  without 
actually  making  a  demand,  but  he  did  not  feel  victor- 
ious. Werner  went  on :  "  It  is  not  a  bad  idea ;  might 
be  quite  pretty,  though  I  see  you  are  going  to  make 
common  pitfalls.  I'll  sweat  them  out  of  the  poetic 
part  even  though  you  are  too  young  to  sweat  them 
out  of  the  music,  and  my  efforts  will  probably  be 
wasted.  You  ought  to  drop  the  whole  thing  like  a 
penny,  and  pick  it  up  tail  first  to  get  a  new  point  of 
view,  or  you  ought  to  walk  all  round  it  till  it  looks 
absurd  and  then  begin.  The  apple-tree  is  a  charming 
notion.  I  wish  youth  and  experience  could  be  given 
to  us  at  once.  I  am  in  such  a  high  state  of  technical 
perfection  that  I  cannot  write  a  really  bad  piece  of 
verse  without  an  effort,  and  yet,  my  dear  boy — ^lassi- 
tude " — ^he  paused  and  looked  Martin  in  the  face — **  I 
am  so  bored  that  I  feel  convinced  my  first  youth  is 
over." 

Martin  became  sympathetic. 

"  You're  only  young,  Werner,"  he  said,  "  only 
young  yet." 

"Yes,  but  I  came  into  existence  long  before  my 
mother  sent  me  forth  into  the  world.  What  happens 
to  the  prince  after  embracing  his  peahen?  " 

"They  lead  the  city  to  destruction,  and  there  is  a 
final  calamity  through  the  interference  of  God." 

"  A  tragedy.    Very  dreadful." 


HEIDELBERG  33 

"An  idea  runs  through  it  of  the  relationship  of 
love  to  facts."  Martin  invented  ideas  as  he  spoke. 
**  Love,  though  beautiful,  begets  disaster.  Disaster  is 
the  beautiful  and  right  climax  of  love.  Nothing  great 
can  be  anything  but  disastrous." 

"  Sad  truths,"  said  Werner.    "  Go  on." 

"  Always,  always,  love  brings  disaster.  Great  things 
and  noble  things  are  incautious  and  reckless,  so  they 
make  omissions,  and  do  acts  that  turn  to  their  destruc- 
tion, or  they  disregard  some  principle.  Don*t  you 
think  so?  Jealousy  and  unhappiness  always  exist 
ready  to  destroy  great  things.  Werner,  you  and  I  can 
make  something  out  of  this.  Werner,  Werner!  My 
youth  and  your  experience!  And  what  words  when 
the  city  crashes  into  the  river,  and  what  praises  of 
love!" 

Werner  could  not  help  an  habitual  lifting  of  the 
lip.  "  What  unrestraint,"  he  murmured,  "  and  what 
banging  on  the  drum  and  squeezing  of  air  through 
bassoons ! " 

"Go  to  hell!"  said  Martin. 

"  Give  me  your  notes  then,"  said  Werner,  "  and 
some  more  beer.  Perhaps  another  mug  will  send  me 
slobbering  into  Paradise." 


CHAPTER  III 

WERNER  returned  home  with  the  manuscript 
to  his  house,  where  the  mice  made  merry 
with  cheese  crumbs  among  his  boots,  where 
they  built  their  nests  and  laid  their  young  in  the  cup- 
board of  his  clothes  press,  the  contents  of  which  had 
long  been  pawned.  The  mice  scurried  away  as  he 
entered,  and  he  swore  for  the  thousandth  time  to  im- 
port a  cat,  but  the  mice  looked  upon  this  oath  as  part 
of  the  noise  a  door  made  in  shutting.  Werner  was 
careless  where  he  lived  and  how,  and  had  no  particu- 
lar but  rather  a  conventional  dislike  of  mice.  He  had 
no  philosophy  of  life  either,  and  no  opinion  to  offer 
about  morality,  war,  religion,  or  any  other  topic;  he 
thought  deeply  without  coming  to  any  conclusion,  and 
lived  pretty  consistently  without  making  any  rule.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  to  whom  acquaintances  attach 
themselves,  whose  remarks  are  valued,  and  whose 
actions  are  outside  the  pale  of  comment :  a  man  about 
whom  scandal  is  silent,  who  is  credited  with  no  vice 
and  no  virtues,  who  influences  the  thoughts  of  these 
he  comes  in  contact  with,  and,  though  opinionless, 
sometimes  sows  the  seed  of  definite  opinions.  He 
never  put  himself  about  for  his  friends  or  indulged  in 
any  practice  of  unselfishness. 

f34 


HEIDELBERG  35 

Werner  came  into  his  room  and  lit  the  candles  upon 
his  desk,  and  the  light  revealed  the  anxious  eyes  of  the 
mice  peering  from  their  holes,  also  the  broken  state  of 
his  sparse  furniture,  the  cracked  stove  that  even  in 
winter  was  never  filled  with  fire,  the  uncurtained  win- 
dow, some  panes  of  which  were  replaced  with  paper, 
and  the  bed,  rough  from  many  nights  of  broken  sleep, 
heaped  with  soiled  and  ragged  bedclothes.  The  irregu- 
larities of  the  glass  in  the  window  sparkled  where  they 
caught  the  candle-light  and  recalled  the  sparkling  lights 
on  the  dark  blackness  of  the  river.  Werner  sat  down 
and  wept,  wept  for  possibly  half  an  hour;  his  nerves 
were  in  a  very  bad  state.  Then  he  addressed  the  mice 
and  summoned  them  to  sit  about  him,  but  the  mice, 
who  had  come  out  of  hiding  again,  fled,  and  he  pre- 
tended to  be  disappointed.  He  wept  again,  because 
he  wept  habitually ;  it  was  a  part  of  the  mortal  illness 
which  consumed  him.  He  also  wept  because  to-night 
he  had  been  reminded  that  he  had  reached  his  zenith 
and  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  youth,  and  that  what- 
ever more  he  did  was  only  at  the  stingy  charity  of 
fate. 

The  tears  dried  in  his  eyes,  he  groaned  within  him- 
self and  wrung  his  hands,  miserable,  miserable  because 
he  was  at  an  end,  jealous  of  youth,  jealous  of  the 
future,  jealous  of  joy.  Then  suddenly  his  gaze  became 
fixed  on  the  glitters  in  the  window  and  in  his  mind 
they  began  to  take  rhythmic  form,  and  the  form  became 


36  MARTIN  SCHULER 

words,  and  the  words  a  far-off  version  of  what  Martin 
had  said  to  him  up  at  the  castle.  Soon,  infused  with 
youth,  he  began  to  write.  He  wrote  steadily,  without 
exertion,  and  without  physical  discomfort.  The  pea- 
hens were  being  born.  He  wrote  until  dawn,  until 
his  false  youth  ebbed  away.  When  the  candles  gut- 
tered and  went  out  he  rose,  pulled  off  his  boots,  took 
a  draft  from  a  black  bottle,  and  fell  upon  the  bed; 
then  he  pulled  the  clothes  over  his  head  and  went  to 
sleep,  but  he  tossed  for  some  hours  in  spite  of  the 
drink  from  the  black  bottle. 

All  this  time  Martin  was  walking  about  the  castle 
yard.  To  Martin  the  success  of  this  new  venture 
seemed  sure,  and  he  was  so  happy  that  he  could  not 
return  to  bed.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  castle 
court-yard  and  up  and  down  the  terrace  among 
the  ghostly  shadows  of  the  ruins.  He  grinned  to 
himself  with  wet,  glistening  eyes  because  of  the  happy 
vision  of  his  future  happiness.  The  wonderful  bliss 
of  premeditation  upon  the  seeming  certainties  of  the 
future  is  only  to  be  compared  with  the  bliss  of  the  dis- 
covery of  love.  Waves  of  sensation  passed  from  his 
head,  the  seat  of  the  imagination,  to  his  abdomen,  the 
seat  of  the  knowledge  of  pleasure.  He  quivered,  he 
yawned,  he  smiled,  he  stretched  his  arms,  he  struck 
the  parapet  of  the  terrace  with  his  flat  hands  and  leereci 
at  the  view,  he  threw  a  little  stone  into  the  woods 
below  the  castle  and  then  sprang  up  on  to  a  dangerous 


HEIDELBERG  37 

spot  and  recklessly  flung  back  his  head  and  laughed 
without  making  a  sound.  He  struck  his  chest  and 
shook  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  blinked  his  eyes 
from  which  tears  fell.  Then  he  took  to  prowling  again 
in  and  out  of  the  shadows,  mad  with  youth  and  hope 
and  dreams  of  success  and  the  May  moon.  Soon,  need- 
ing exertion,  he  climbed  over  the  parapet  of  the  ter- 
race and  made  a  perilous  descent  into  the  woods,  and 
then  wandered  far,  roaming  away  in  the  beautiful 
woods  till  dawn.  He  rested  now  and  then  upon  the 
ground  amongst  lilies  of  the  valley  and  violets  and 
Solomon-seal,  somnolent  among  green  leaves  that 
seemed  white  and  immobile  as  wax  in  the  moonlight. 
He  crushed  them  down  with  his  body  as  he  lay,  lost, 
and  in  paradise,  half  awake,  half  asleep,  without  know- 
ledge of  anything  save  beauty  and  happiness.  He  slept 
among  them  and  awoke  soon,  to  rise  and  pass  on  to 
some  other  dell  or  grove  under  the  lightly  leaved 
beeches.  He  walked  ankle  deep  in  young  grass  and 
knee-deep  in  blue  flowers,  through  blue  groves  where 
the  moon  did  not  pierce,  and  at  early  dawn,  when 
moon  and  morning  struggled  to  make  wan  each  other's 
light,  he  slept  under  tall  cherry-trees  that  grew  among 
the  larches.  Day  broke  and  birds  sang;  the  nightin- 
gale redoubled  her  endeavors  that  had  ceased  in  the 
last  hour  of  night,  a  blackbird  called  in  the  gray 
branches  of  a  cherry-tree,  and  Martin  awoke  again 
refreshed,  an  ordinary  young  man,  sane  and  joyful. 


38  MARTIN  SCHULER 

He  lay  and  watched  the  cherry  blossom  become  tinged 
with  pink  and  recommence  its  business  of  falling  that 
had  ceased  during  the  night.  He  called  to  the  black- 
bird until  it  flew  away,  then  arose  and  wandered  to- 
wards the  river.  Soon  he  emerged  into  the  vineyards, 
where  the  young  leaves  of  the  vine  were  spreading  out 
their  hands.  The  vine  stalks  were  red  in  the  rising 
sun,  and  the  leaves  were  of  the  most  delicate  green  in 
the  morning  air,  and  the  shadows  of  the  hills  upon  the 
vineyard  were  deep  blue.  The  sky  was  azure  and  the  air 
white,  thin  and  pure,  and  so  clear  that  trees  and  dwell- 
ings could  be  distinguished  in  the  far-off  Rhine  plain. 
All  was  clear,  fresh,  and  lovely:  pale  green,  golden, 
golden-red,  and  blue.  All  the  world  was  these  four 
colors  in  the  morning  sun.  There  was  no  smell  save 
the  smell  of  the  dew,  and  no  noise  save  the  deep  run- 
ning of  the  wide  river  far  below  and  the  noise  of  the 
birds. 

Martin  stared  and  stared,  and  thought  how  strange 
day  and  night  were,  how  empty  day-break  was,  how 
crowded  evening.  How  could  one  be  responsible  in 
this  new  land  for  deeds  and  thoughts  of  last  night's  old 
one.  There  was  no  link  between  the  days.  Only  a 
stupid  man  or  a  priest  could  bind  himself  by  the  van- 
ished day  before.  Freedom!  To-day!  This  morning! 
Birth!  Rejuvenation!  The  past  is  dead.  We  pluck 
from  the  past,  but  it  is  dead.  We  thrust  back  a  hand  to 
take  from  out  of  the  coffin.  To-day  there  is  no  yester- 


HEIDELBERG  39 

day,  only  to-day.    Even  in  war  we  can  say  to-day  is 
to-day.    Enmity  died  in  the  night. 

Martin  felt  clean  and  free  as  he  stood  at  the  top  of 
the  vineyard  on  the  hill,  but  by  the  time  he  had  got  to 
the  bottom  he  perceived  that  he  was  partially  covered 
already  with  the  flies  of  memory  and  thought.  He 
said,  bowing  to  necessity,  that  this  could  not  be  helped. 
He  also  felt  hungry,  and  this,  and  the  magnetism  of 
human  life,  drew  him  back  towards  the  town.  He 
walked  by  the  river,  where  many  flowers  grew,  and 
when  in  the  course  of  time  he  remembered  Bertha  he 
gathered  her  a  bouquet  of  these  to  please  her.  He 
walked  back  to  Heidelberg  picking  flowers,  the  embryo 
of  a  famous  man,  with  full  intuitions,  crystallized 
ambitions,  and  a  temporary  loss  of  youth. 


CHAPTER  ly 

THE  spring  passed  into  summer,  and  Martin  be- 
gan to  assume  the  behavior  of  a  young  genius. 
All  that  he  wrote,  whether  it  was  suitable  or 
not,  he  labelled  "  Peahens,"  and  shut  up  in  a  black  port- 
folio. He  wrote  a  great  deal;  his  imagination  ran 
wild.  Werner  called  the  peahens  the  rabbits,  because 
they  bred  so  often  in  so  short  a  time.  He  became 
imperious  towards  his  family,  particularly  towards 
his  mother;  he  became  silly  and  superior  in  female 
society.  He  changed  his  mode  of  dressing  and  wore 
check  ties,  and  had  his  hair  cut  in  a  different  fashion. 
He  began  to  quiz  girls  in  tea-shops  and  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  the  fair  performers  at  the  theater ;  he  changed 
from  a  simple,  dull  boy  into  a  conceited,  flashy  young 
man,  absurd,  and  yet  charming,  who  made  girls  giggle 
and  chatter  and  nudge  one  another  and  become  hys- 
teirical  because  they  couldn't  keep  their  animal  feelings 
in  order.  He  was  a  young  animal  himself,  infatuated 
with  the  idea  of  himself  as  something  godlike.  The 
human  element  in  him  was  reduced  to  a  minimum,  was 
reduced  to  his  attitude  about  himself.  It  is  human  to 
be  godlike  and  animal-like  at  the  same  time;  the 
result  is  human  because  it  is  absurd.    Martin's  godli- 

40 


HEIDELBERG  41 

ness  was  symbolized  by  check  ties  and  straighter 
shoulders,  tremendous  energy  and  noisy  rushing  from 
place  to  place;  but  his  godliness  itself  was  symbol  of 
the  awakened  animal  just  as  the  girls'  giggles  were 
symbols  of  the  corresponding  animals  in  them.  Phy- 
sical excitement  and  dull  contemplation  produce  artistic 
work.  Some  artists  are  hermits,  some  are  rakes.  Some 
men  produce  beautiful  things  from  the  sparks  that 
excitement  clashes  out  of  them,  particularly  from  the 
sparks  of  sexual  excitement,  passion,  and  the  rest  of 
it;  others  by  deep  thought  drag  wonders  from  the 
dark  unknown. 

Martin  began  a  series  of  more  or  less  serious  love 
affairs.  The  first  began  upon  the  first  of  June,  when 
he  reached  the  age  of  twenty-one.  All  that  he  did 
before  with  a  feeling  of  daring  he  now  did  naturally 
and  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  first  result  of  this  new 
attitude  was  the  Romance  of  Lili.  Lili  was  fair, 
sweet,  and  round,  and  so  far  influenced  him  that  he 
threw  into  the  peahen  portfolio  what  afterwards  be- 
came a  ballad.  The  affair  began  upon  one  of  those 
pleasant  expeditions  which  the  English  call  "excur- 
sions "  to  the  small  town  of  Eberbach. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  first  of  June  a  party  of 
friends  arrived,  according  to  pre-arrangement,  at  the 
Schiilers'  house.  Markheim  came,  Lili  and  Max 
Bauer,  Frau  and  Fraulein  Offenbach,  Herr  Karl  Fink 
• — a.  placid,  fair  young  man — George  Fink,  his  solid 


42  MARTIN  SCHULER 

elder  brother,  Peter  Flettner,  and  Mimi  Adler,  two 
young  and  detached  people.  Of  all  this  company,  Lili 
Bauer  was  the  queen  and  her  brother  Max  the  death's 
head.  Frau  Offenbach  paired  off  with  Papa  Schiiler 
and  Frau  Schiiler  with  George  Fink,  two  suitable  and 
heavy  couples  of  chaperons.  Martin  at  once  pounced 
upon  Lili  and  Markheim  upon  Bertha.  Peter  Flettner 
got  the  ugly,  but  good-natured,  daughter  Offenbach, 
and  young  Fink  got  Mimi.  Max  Bauer  was  offended 
because  Martin  had  forgotten  when  counting  the  men 
to  count  himself,  so  there  were  too  few  girls.  Every- 
body tried  to  think  of  a  remedy,  but  Max  refused  to 
call  for  any  of  the  girls  suggested,  or  to  share  any  of 
those  there,  and  took  upon  himself  bearishly  all  the 
railway  ticket-buying  and  cab-ordering.  The  party 
left  the  house  at  seven,  dressed  in  expedition  clothes. 
Everybody  had  a  sandwich  box  suspended  from  a  strap 
passed  over  the  shoulder,  all  had  walking  sticks  with 
points,  and  stout  boots.  Some  of  the  men  wore  Tyro- 
lean shirts  and  round  felt  hats,  and  Martin  wore  a 
loose  black  suit  and  a  red  silk  tie.  The  ladies  were 
clothed  regardless  of  years  in  cotton  dresses  with  full 
skirts  and  collarless,  square-cut  bodices  with  elbow 
sleeves,  and  each  carried  a  jacket  of  some  dark  color 
in  case  the  temperature  fell.  Soon  the  men  were  carry- 
ing the  jackets,  also  the  parasols  that  some  girls 
thought  fit  to  bring  as  well  as  walking  sticks,  but  Max 
collected  these  sunshades  and  threw  them  overboard 


HEIDELBERG  43 

when  they  were  on  the  steamer,  because  he  found  they 
would  ultimately  devolve  upon  him. 

At  seven-thirty  they  all  boarded  the  little  steamer 
that  goes  a  few  times  a  day  up  and  down  a  short 
distance  of  the  Neckar;  and  once  aboard  Max  dis- 
carded the  sunshades  and  the  party  threw  off  the  cloud 
his  grumbles  had  spread  over  them,  and  all  at  once 
began  to  be  very  merry. 

At  first  Martin  was  shy  and  stiff  with  Lili,  and  had 
nothing  to  say,  but  at  breakfast,  which  as  they  were 
a  large  party  was  served  for  them  at  a  table  in  the 
stern,  Lili  began  to  thaw  him.  She  thawed  him  with 
honey.  There  was  honey  for  breakfast,  a  kind  of 
sweet  glue,  of  which  Martin,  who  was  greedy,  took  so 
much  that  it  ran  all  over  his  plate. 

"You  must  be  a  bee,"  said  Lili;  "how  fond  you 
are  of  honey." 

"  He  loves  honey,  he  has  a  sweet  tooth,"  explained 
Frau  Schiller;  "he  always  did  love  honey." 

"  I  hated  honey,"  said  Martin. 

"  Hated  honey !  oh,  Herr  Schiiler !  "  cried  Lili. 

"  I  don't  now,"  said  Martin,  whose  face  suddenly 
relaxed;  "I  like  all  sweet  things,"  he  said  this  in  a 
lower  voice.    "  My  name  is  Martin,  Lili." 

Lili  blushed  and  said,  "  Don't,  don't !  "  making  be- 
lieve he  was  pinching  her. 

Throughout  breakfast  they  carried  on  a  slight  flirta- 
tious  warfare,    and    after   breakfast    Herr    Schiiler 


44  MARTIN  SCHULER 

recommended  them  all  to  watch  the  fine  scenery  and 
not  to  miss  any  of  the  noble  castles  because  it  would  be 
dark  when  they  returned.  Lili  and  Martin,  however, 
hung  over  the  stern,  and  Martin  told  Lili  all  about 
himself,  and  squeezed  her  hand  until  they  wondered 
why  they  both  felt  a  little  sick. 

"  I  feel  sick,"  said  Martin,  suddenly  and  quite 
candidly. 

"Don't  look  at  the  water,'*  said  Lili;  "it  comes 
so  endlessly  from  under  the  boat,  so  wriggly  and 
streaky,  I  feel  as  if  my  own  eyes  were  looking 
backwards." 

"When  we  walk  up  the  Weg  after  dinner,"  said 
Martin,  "  will  you  walk  with  me  ?  "  He  said  this 
seriously.  They  leaned  on  the  stern  rail,  looking  at  one 
another. 

Lili  gave  him  her  hand  behind  her  dress.  "  Of 
course,"  she  said;  "I  am  your  day-friend." 

"  My  life  friend,"  said  Martin,  whose  heart  jerked 
suddenly. 

Then  they  joined  the  others,  and  Martin  became 
facetious  and  witty,  and  in  due  time  they  arrived  at 
the  landing  for  Eberbach,  where,  amongst  much  hilar- 
ity and  jokes  about  the  size  of  Frau  Schuler  and  Frau 
Offenbach,  all  of  which  were  deeply  appreciated  by  the 
crew,  they  got  off  the  boat  and  into  rickety  pair-horse 
carriages,  which  dragged  them  through  the  little  streets, 
an  extremely  short  distance,  to  the  best  restaurant. 


HEIDELBERG  45 

Here  they  all  got  out  amongst  many  more  similar 
jokes,  some  of  which  were  vulgar,  and  crowded,  laugh- 
ing and  giggling,  into  the  restaurant  All  things  had 
been  ordered  beforehand,  and  the  proprietor  showed 
them  into  a  pleasant  garden  where  tables  were  ready 
set  for  dinner.  Soon,  under  wistaria  boughs  and  lilac 
blossom,  they  devoured  a  large  and  substantial  meal, 
in  the  middle  of  which  Frau  Offenbach  exclaimed  to 
Herr  Schiiler  by  pre-arrangement : 

"Why,  to-day,  of  all  days!  It  is  dear  Martin's 
birthday!'^ 

Everybody  remembered  what  they  had  known  all 
along,  and  amidst  general  confusion,  which  Martin 
enjoyed,  the  lost  jackets  were  called  for,  found  and 
rifled,  and  simultaneously  everybody  presented  him 
with  mementoes.  Martin  accepted  them  suitably  and 
thought  "  What  will  all  these  people  say  a  few  years 
hence!  Little  do  they  think  that  soon  it  will  be  kind 
of  me  to  speak  to  them."  His  left  hand  was  pinching 
Lili's  little  finger. 

In  the  course  of  time  dinner  and  wine-drinking 
came  to  an  end,  and  the  ladies  went  indoors  to  rest 
and  the  men  lounged  in  the  garden  smoking  cigars. 

Max  spoke  to  Martin. 

"How  old?"  he  said. 

"Twenty-one,"  said  Martin. 

"  Not  really,"  said  Max,  "  I  would  not  have  thought 


46  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"Which  way?"  said  Martin,  and  laughed  when 
Max  allowed  himself  to  be  scored  off. 

"  My  sister  is  nineteen/'  said  Max. 

"Oh!  "said  Martin. 

"  She  is  a  pretty  girl ;  she  ought  to  have  a  mother. 
I  have  had  her  on  my  hands  four  years." 

"  Get  her  a  husband/'  said  old  Schiiler,  and  young 
Fink  said : 

"Martin,  aren't  you  sweet  on  her?" 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  said  Martin,  looking  at  Fink,  with 
the  eye  that  Max  could  not  see  half  shut. 

Fink  went  into  roars  of  laughter  and  came  over 
to  Martin.    He  talked  into  Martin's  ear,  chuckling. 

"  You  are  walking  up  the  Weg  with  Lili  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Walking?" 

"Yes;  so  so." 

"  We  are  all  going  to  the  tower." 

"  One  needn't  hurry." 

"  Better  not  hurry  back ;  one  can  miss  the  boat." 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  "perhaps.  What  are  you 
talking  for?" 

"  Mimi  and  I  intend  to  be  lost ;  do  you  get  lost 
also,  it  will  look  better." 

Martin  grinned.  "  Very  well,  then.  Where  will 
you  be  lost  ?  "    He  felt  like  a  benevolent  uncle. 

"  On  the  way  from  the  tower.  We  will  take  the 
first  wrong  turning  on  the  way  down.     Do  not  de- 


HEIDELBERG  47 

ceive  us,  Martin.    Mimi  and  I  can  rely  on  you?" 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Martin. 

"  Can  you  manage  Lili  ?  " 

"Women!"  said  Martin.  "I  cannot  answer  for 
Lili." 

"  Then  I  will  answer  for  her  myself." 

Soon  they  all  came  together  again  and  set  off  in  grim 
earnest  to  make  the  two  hours'  walk  to  the  tower  on 
the  top  of  the  Katzenbuckle.  The  girls  felt  they  were 
going  a  walking  tour,  and  looked  it;  the  men  felt  the 
same,  but  said  in  answer  to  their  cries : 

"The  Katzenbuckle!  Only  a  step!  Dear  girls, 
what  an  outcry  about  a  mere  stroll." 

The  walk  began  briskly,  but  degenerated  into  an 
amble,  which  became  slower  as  the  paths  became 
steeper.  The  party  spread  out  further  and  further, 
until  Max,  who  found  it  impossible  to  be  genial  with 
any  of  the  pairs,  had  arrived  at  the  tower,  and  Mimi 
and  young  Fink,  who  were  deeply  in  love,  were  half 
a  mile  behind. 

Martin  sauntered  with  his  Lili,  pausing  every  now 
and  then  to  gather  wild  flowers  and  make  silly  speeches. 

As  they  neared  the  tower  Martin  said  : 

"  Lili." 

"Yes,  what  is  it  you  want?  Another  kiss?"  said 
Lili  softly. 

"  I  want  you  to  love  me." 

"  Love  you!  '*    Lili  was  serious. 


48  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  Yes,  to  love  me." 

"  I  shall  always  love  you,"  said  Lili  sentimentally, 
*'  but  you  will  only  love  me  a  short  time." 

Martin  ought  to  have  protested,  but  he  said : 

"  Why?    Why  do  you  say  that?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Lili.    "  It  is  true." 

He  ought  to  have  protested  again,  but  again  he  did 
not. 

"  Love  is  not  to  be  calculated  in  lengths,"  he  said ; 
"  only  in  depth." 

**  Oh,  no,  no ! "  said  Lili ;  "  the  noblest  quality  of 
love  is  endurance." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Martin;  "but  we  don't  calculate 
by  endurance,  any  more  than  if  you  live  long  we  shall 
honor  you  any  more  than  if  you  die  young."  He  was 
not  feeling  inclined  to  argue  clearly.  "  Love  is  deep," 
he  went  on,  "  or  shallow.  A  long  shallow  love  is  worth 
less  than  a  deep  short  one." 

"  A  long  deep  one  is  best,"  said  Lili. 

"  Well,  will  you  love  me  ?  "  said  Martin. 

"How?"  said  Lili. 

"Let  us  say  short  and  deep."  Martin  embraced 
her  and  gazed  into  her  eyes.  "  I  love  you  to-day, 
Lili,"  he  said;  "who  knows  if  I  shall  love  you  to- 
morrow.   Love  me  in  return  to-day." 

"  How  beautiful,"  said  Lili,  whose  eyes  had  tears 
in  them ;  "  how  beautiful  your  voice  sounds ;  what  cruel 
things  it  says." 


HEIDELBERG  49 

"  Love  me  to-day,"  said  Martin,  drawing  her  into 
the  woods  aside  from  the  path.  "  My  birthday  1  On 
the  return  from  the  tower,  surrender  your  sweet  little 
hands  into  mine  and  let  me  lead  you.  Lili !  look  at  me. 
In  the  eyes — no,  in  the  eyes.  Don't  you  love  me  ?  Ah, 
yes,  you  love  me,  I  can  see.  Lili,  I  adore  you !  Kiss 
my  lips !  Dear  little  girl,  yours  are  as  sweet  as  honey. 
*  Lili  Lara '  I  shall  call  you. 

"Lili  Lara,,  listen  to  your  lo-o-ver. 
Lili  Lara,  give  him  all  your  heart. 
Lili  Lara,  give  him  all  he  asks  you, 

Lest  he  leave  you,  lest  he  should  depart 
After  other  maidens,  Lili  Lara! 
Lili  Lara,  Lili  of  my  heart. 

"  Hush,  don't  sob.    I  made  that  up.    The  tune  too." 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Martin  ?  Do  you  love  me, 
or  are  you  just  pretending?  I've  loved  you  for  so 
long." 

"  I  mean  it,  Lili.  Come,  we  must  walk  on,  I  mean 
it.  Promise  me — after  the  tower — to  love  me.  My 
birthday,  on  my  birthday.  Walk  on,  we  must  catch 
up,  Lili!" 

"  But We   must   walk   on.      I   will   think ! 

Oh,  we  must  not  do  anything  silly.  Libet,  you 
know " 

"  Yes,  hush ;  I  know  about  Libet — ^her  lover  was  a 
cad,"  Martin  took  her  arm  and  led  her  slowly  on- 
ward till  they  regained  the  path  higher  up,  and  neither 


50  MARTIN  SCHULER 

of  them  spoke  again  until  they  got  to  the  tower.  In 
Lili's  mind  consent  and  refusal  were  alternating 
mechanically.  No,  yes;  no,  yes;  no,  yes.  Her  reason 
had  left  her;  she  left  that  if  No  was  top  when  next 
Martin  spoke  to  her  she  would  refuse,  if  Yes  she  would 
consent.  Her  heart  was  beating  tjeavily,  but  she  did 
not  recognize  it ;  she  felt  as  if  some  rhythmical  machine 
were  swinging  in  her.  She  did  not  anticipate  love 
recklessly  and  gayly ;  she  was  numb,  cold,  and  terrified, 
but  she  felt  only  the  swing  in  her  body  and  the  regular 
beat — no,  yes;  no,  yes;  no,  yes. 

Martin  walked  beside  her  with  a  sense  of  control 
in  his  mind  like  an  expert  contortionist  on  the  tight- 
rope, like  an  expert  engineer  with  a  delicate  machine 
ready  to  give  the  slightest  touch  with  his  hand,  to 
exercise  exact  judgment  in  his  mind.  He  advanced 
beyond  his  years  to  the  expert  age  of  thirty  or  so,  and 
the  next  musical  composition  he  wrote  benefited  by  it, 
gaining  sureness  and  finer  balance. 

The  situation  was  not  in  Lili's  hands. 

At  the  tower  were  several  excursionists,  many  from 
Heidelberg,  who  had  taken  advantage  of  the  Friday 
facilities  and  of  the  fine  weather.  Old  Herr  Schiiler 
met  several  friends,  and  soon  the  chaperons,  who  were 
all  tired,  settled  down  with  other  old  gossips  and  began 
even  there  on  that  summer  afternoon  to  pull  to  bits 
their  absent  friends  and  enemies,  and  to  discuss  trade, 
crochet,  cookery,  and  babies,  according  to  their  sex  and 


HEIDELBERG  51 

taste.  Fraulein  Offenbach  and  Bertha,  who  were  tired, 
also  sat  near  them  with  their  fiances.  They  sat  near 
enough  to  hear  what  was  said  upon  certain  interesting 
subjects,  because  they  were  both  soon  to  be  married 
and  lost  no  opportunity  of  collecting  evidence  upon  cer- 
tain events  of  married  life.  They  both  hoped  Flettner 
and  Markheim  could  not  hear;  but  Flettner  and  Mark- 
heim  did  hear,  and  felt  hot  and  happy  inside.  Soon 
they  definitely  joined  their  elders,  and  the  young  ones 
— the  boys  and  girls,  the  children  as  they  were  thought 
of — went  up  to  the  top  of  the  tower,  and,  straining 
their  eyes  to  see  the  Swabian  Mountains,  the  Black 
Forest,  and  what  not,  saw  nothing  but  the  human  being 
next  to  them,  and  heard  nothing  but  one  voice. 

There  below  the  old  tower  sat  the  old  men  and 
women  like  mushrooms,  gossiping  of  life,  and  round 
the  top  like  birds  hung  the  young  ones,  chattering 
of  love.  The  old  ones,  unmoved,  impervious  to  the 
weather,  blind  to  green  trees  and  blue  distances  and 
the  romantic  far-off  presence  of  the  mountains,  sat  like 
besiegers  who  bide  their  time  at  the  base  of  an  im- 
pregnable fortress,  and  the  young  ones,  sensitive  to 
light  and  darkness,  and  to  the  black  name  of  Schwarz- 
wald,  flew  free  in  their  minds  across  rivers  and  across 
plains,  even  to  the  sea,  even  to  that  same  forest,  free 
tmtil  the  inevitable  return,  the  moment  of  capitulation, 
of  humiliation,  and  descent. 

At  five  o'clock  the  sandwich  boxes  were  opened  and 


52  MARTIN  SCHtfLER 

their  contents  eaten,  and  at  six  the  cavalcade,  which 
had  been  joined  by  many  acquaintances  and  friends, 
began  the  long  descent. 

It  was  easy  to  stray,  easy  to  get  lost,  and  at  seven 
o'clock  young  Fink  and  Martin  and  their  girls  were 
far  away,  unmissed  from  that  straggling  stream.  Fink 
winked  at  Martin  when  he  was  going  to  disappear, 
and  Martin  gave  him  ten  minutes'  start,  after  which  he 
himself  went  off  with  Lili ;  but  he  did  not  tell  Lili  about 
Fink,  nor  did  Fink  tell  Mimi  about  Martin.  Men  are 
keepers  of  secrets. 

The  four  returned  home  late  by  the  last  train  that 
night.  Lili  and  Mimi  were  silent  and  white.  Fink  was 
pale,  but  deeper  than  ever  in  love;  passion  had  filled 
him  and  was  not  yet  exhausted,  and  Mimi  knew  even 
in  her  tired  mind  that  he  would  marry  her.  But  Mar- 
tin was  calm;  he  had  no  love  feelings  one  way  or  the 
other;  he  was  possessed  by  a  thought  which  after- 
wards became  a  long  ballade.  He  felt  simple,  and 
was  simple  in  the  midst  of  complexity,  straightforward 
and  sure,  honest  in  his  dishonesty,  momentarily  com- 
plete, perfectly  wedded,  perfectly  divorced.  Love  and 
fancy  had  vanished,  and  his  thought,  fitting  perfectly 
to  the  rhythm  of  the  clanking  train,  found  him  pure, 
virgin  as  white  snow,  master  of  himself,  isolated,  a 
monk,  above  his  companions  in  virtue  and  in  everything 
else,  alone  in  their  midst,  inhuman,  silent,  and  remote. 


HEIDELBERG  53 

Beside  him  sat  his  girl,  begetter  of  his  thought,  but  he 
had  forgotten  her;  she  was  dead  to  him.  There  she 
sat — used,  inferior,  and  dismissed,  he  had  no  further 
need  of  her.  She  was  inferior,  she  felt  inferior — 
inferior  and  feminine,  until  she  looked  across  at  Fink. 
He  too  looked  puny,  microbe-souled,  even  less  than 
herself.  She  at  least  was  associated.  All  of  them  were 
but  the  ether  round  the  planet,  but  Lili,  perhaps,  was 
a  little  moon.  "  Oh,  dear/'  she  sighed  to  herself, 
"how  clever  he  looks,  and  how  stern!  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  be  proud.  Oh,  oh !  I  hope  nothing  will  happen 
— why  was  I  such  a  fool !  I  hope  nothing  disgraceful 
will  happen." 

Thus  they  came  into  Heidelberg  and  were  greeted 
by  frantic  friends,  but  Martin,  who  with  perfect  self- 
possession  helped  Lili,  almost  fainting,  to  the  ground, 
said  ,"  We  are  late,  yes.  The  gods  be  damned :  in  the 
tv/ilight  we  took  the  turning  down  to  Zwingenberg/' 


CHAPTER  V 

AFTER  the  Eberbach  expedition  Martin  thought 
more  of  himself  than  ever.  He  had  long 
stretches  of  manhood  when  he  forgot  that  he 
had  recently  been  a  boy.  He  became  for  days  together 
a  stranger  in  his  family,  and  Bertha  and  his  mother 
sighed  to  one  another  over  the  change  that  had  come 
upon  him.  Now  and  then  he  relapsed,  wore  his  old 
clothes,  and  was  gay  and  affectionate  with  Bertha, 
imperious  and  gentle  with  his  mother,  dull  and  sulky 
with  his  father,  until  he  met  Fink,  or  saw  a  new  piece 
at  the  theater,  or  got  a  girl  to  kiss  him  at  the  cafe 
again.  In  his  mannish  moods  he  would  talk  of  earn- 
ing money  and  living  away  from  home ;  he  would  look 
upon  Werner  as  a  rusty  old  chap;  he  would  say  to 
his  friends,  "  Fm  getting  that  chap  Werner  to  do  the 
dirty  work  for  my  opera  " ;  and  to  Werner  he  would 
say,  if  he  met  him  in  the  street,  "Hello!  how*s  the 
work  going?  "  as  if  he  was  a  master-builder,  too  rich 
to  worry,  and  Werner  were  a  very  young  foreman. 
He  seemed  to  think  Werner  had  only  one  object  in 
life,  and  so  Werner  had ;  but  that  was  to  live  until  he 
died,  not  to  slave  at  Martin's  peahens. 

In  one  of  these  moods  he  went  to  see  Werner. 

54 


HEIDELBERG  55 

*'  Hello,  Werner !  "  he  said,  "  I've  come  to  see  how 
the  brood  is.'' 

"  What  brood  ?  "  said  Werner,  desisting  from  writ- 
ing an  address  to  the  spirit  of  the  age. 

"  My  hens." 

"  Oh !  oh !  "  said  Wernew,  "  they  have  gone  to 
roost." 

"  Where  ?    Can  I  have  a  look  at  them  ?  '' 

"If  you  like,"  said  Werner;  "they  are  in  that 
drawer." 

Martin  pulled  out  the  drawer  hastily,  and  found  a 
few  sheets  of  paper  in  it. 

"  What!  "  he  cried,  "  four  sheets!  In  two  months 
only  four  sheets !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Werner,  "  you  don't  want  me  to  hurry 
your  life's  work.  Masterpieces  are  the  blood  of  the 
spirit.  The  condensation  is  a  slow  business."  He 
did  not  tell  Martin  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  fair 
copy  and  that  several  sheets  of  unintelligible  hiero- 
glyphics lay  in  the  drawer  above. 

"  I'm  damned !  "  said  Martin. 

"  To  disappointment,"  said  Werner.  "  Slow,  slow, 
slow ;  life's  slow,  isn't  it  ?  Why  don't  you  and  I  wake 
up  famous  one  morning  instead  of  having  to  creep 
slowly  up  the  old  mountain  to  the  tower.  When 
we've  been  to  the  tower  we  can  enjoy  ourselves." 

"You  old  beast,"  said  Martin,  patting  Werner's 
shoulders  roughly ;  "  who  told  you  ?  " 


56  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"Max  Bauer  and  I  do  talk  when  we  meet,"  said 
Werner. 

"Max!" 

"  Yes/'  said  Werner ;  "  he  is  a  shrewd  man,  and 
terrified  lest  his  sister  should  do  anything  foolish." 

"  Lili  is  a  little  ass." 

"  His  dying  mother  handed  her  over  to  him,"  said 
Werner ;  "  he's  sentimental  about  her." 

"  Well,  I  say,"  said  Martin,  "  there  is  no  harm  in 
it,  you  old  crow,  you  old  Puritan  crow.  Nobody 
knows." 

Werner  laughed.  "  You  are  irresistible.  People 
cannot  refuse  you !  " 

"They  can  if  they  want,"  said  Martin;  "we  are 
all  human  beings." 

"  You  seem  to  think  yourself  a  little  divine  now  and 
then,  all  the  same,"  said  Werner.  "  I  think  you  think 
yourself  superior  to  the  world  in  general." 

"  What  if  I  do?  "  said  Martin;  "  what  if  I  am?  " 

"  It's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Werner,  and  settled 
down  to  write. 

"  You  are  a  bear,"  said  Martin. 

"Well,"  said  Werner,  after  a  silence,  "sit  down; 
don't  raise  the  dust  with  your  feet.  My  mice  will  lose 
their  way  if  you  obliterate  their  tracks,  and  perhaps 
miss  even  the  last  train." 

**  Oh,  stop! "  said  Martin,  sitting  on  a  stool  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 


HEIDELBERG  57 

"Listen,"  said  Werner,  "to  a  dying  man.  You 
cannot  have  life  both  ways.  You  are  either  superior 
or  equal.  If  you  are  superior  you  must  not  expect 
in  others  the  strength  and  virtue  which  you  find  in 
yourself;  if  you  are  equal  you  must  not  act  like  a 
superior." 

"  Wise,  wise  words !  "  said  Martin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Werner,  "  beyond  your  comprehension." 

Martin  lost  his  temper. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  "  give  me  those  peahens.  Vm 
going." 

"  No,"  said  Werner,  "  they  are  incomplete." 

"  Give  me  them,  I  say,"  he  said,  stamping  his 
foot. 

"  The  manuscript  is  mine,  unfortunately,"  said 
^Werner. 

Martin  went  out  of  the  door  and  cried,  "  Keep  it ! 
keep  it,  destroyer  of  my  idea !  "  and  began  to  run  home 
in  a  rage ;  but  before  he  got  half-way  his  rage  turned 
into  a  thought  which  he  put  down  directly  he  got 
back. 

All  his  emotions  that  summer  became  converted  half- 
way through  into  music;  the  music  generally  was  good, 
so  there  was  some  excuse  for  his  grotesque  superior 
airs,  and  the  evaporation  of  his  constancy. 

He  returned  to  Werner  that  evening  in  a  boyish 
mood  and  brought  some  of  his  tunes.  Werner  dis- 
closed the  hidden  manuscript  and  they  talked  amicably. 


58  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Werner  told  him  he  had  improved  in  originality  and 
quality,  and  Martin  professed  in  turn  to  admire  the 
peahens. 

Martin  became  human  and  sentimental. 

"You're  my  only  true  friend,"  he  said,  grasping 
Werner's  hand.    "  Life  is  difficult." 

"  It  is,"  said  Werner,  "  for  all." 

"  I  wish  I  could  love  deeply  and  truly,"  said  Martin. 
**  The  fact  is,  all  my  feelings  change  into  tunes  after  a 
little.    What  am  I  to  do?" 

**  Your  constancy  becomes  immortal,"  said  Werner, 
putting  both  hands  on  his  arm.  "  Dear  Martin,  I  love 
you — a  declaration  of  passion  from  a  dying  man. 
Immortalize  that." 

"Unfortunate,  but  I  cannot,"  said  Martin;  "when 
I  don't  want  to  I  must,  and  when  I  want  to  I  can't. 
It's  all  chance — all  chance.  I've  no  will  in  the 
matter." 

"  Some  day,  after  long  practice,"  said  Werner,  "  one 
gets  the  will  in  the  matter." 

"Why  can't  I  go  straight  ahead  like  plain  sewing 
women  do,  like  a  steamer  ?  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever 
arrive  at  anything.  I'm  over  twenty-one,  and  yet  there 
is  nothing  in  sight." 

"You've  developed  late,"  said  Werner;  "but  that 
will  not  hurt  you." 

"  It's  all  such  a  mess,"  said  Martin,  picking  up  a 
poem  Werner  had  just  completed,  and  tearing  it  absent- 


HEIDELBERG  59 

mindedly  into  little  bits.  "  Nothing  definite,  all  a  mess 
— such  a  mess." 

"  Perhaps  your  first  ambition  is  beyond  you,"  said 
Werner,  making  a  slight  grimace,  and  sweeping  the 
bits  of  torn  paper  off  his  desk  on  to  the  floor. 

"  Perhaps  so,  damn  it !  "  said  Martin  sullenly.  "  I 
must  write  songs — bah!  songs!  chansons  d'amour! 
waltzes,  pooh!  The  gods  be  damned;  why  don't  I 
obey  myself,  why  don't  I  do  what  I  wish?  I've  not 
the  strength  of  character.  I'm  not  a  genius,  that's  it. 
Why  don't  I  produce  operas  instead  of  portfolios  of 
silly  tunes?  My  head  swells.  I  think  I  am  being 
magnificent,  writing  wonders !  It  draws  together,  I've 
written  a  fragment  after  Chopin!  Look  at  all  this! 
To-morrow  I'll  begin  again.  Only  that  bit  is  worth 
anything  " — he  began  sorting  through  his  portfolio — 
"  and  that,  perhaps,  and  perhaps  that,  and  those  two 
also.    That's  all  there  is  out  of  the  peahens." 

He  sighed  and  dropped  the  portfolio  on  the  floor. 

"  Do  you  want  to  make  money  ?  "  said  Werner. 

"  I  should  not  mind,"  said  Martin ;  "  then  I  could 
live  alone.  I  believe  the  atmosphere  of  our  house  pre- 
vents me  writing." 

"  Finish  that  ballade,"  said  Werner.  "  It  is  good, 
almost  very  good,  but  quite  public  taste.  Finish  sev- 
eral of  these  tunes,  publish  them,  get  assurance,  get  a 
grip,  make  money.  Then  look  at  the  peahens,  and  if 
you  don't  fancy  them,  invent  something  else.'' 


6o  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"Thanks,"  said  Martin,  freezing  for  a  moment; 
"  I  want  your  advice,  don't  I  ?  " 

**  I  don't  know,"  said  Werner,  "  perhaps  not.  Your 
instinct  will  guide  you.  It  is  dangerous  to  interfere 
with  genius." 

Martin  became  hot  again. 

"  I  found  that  only  women  were  ever  able  to  deal 
with  genius,"  said  Werner;  "they  know  all  about 
sacrifice  and  hero-worship.  Cherchez  la  femme,  that  is 
my  advice.  Yes,  that  is  the  best  advice — Cherches  la 
femme," 

"  It  is  curious,"  said  Martin,  "  but  that  seems  true. 
All  great  men " 

**  Yes,  yes,"  said  Werner,  "  have  picked  the  brains 
and  hearts  of  a  few  women.  Beautiful  things  and 
clever  things  all  originate  in  a  woman.  The  paradox : 
the  greater  are  the  lesser;  the  lesser,  greater.  Out  of 
sweetness  came  forth  strength.  Out  of  meat  came 
forth  the  eater." 

"  We  excel,"  said  Martin,  meaning  men. 

"  Until  the  day  of  judgment,"  said  Werner. 

"  We  are  strong  and  '  do  '  after  all,"  said  Martin. 

"The  women  have  not  the  women,"  said  Werner, 
"but  only  the  men." 

"  Are  you  a  feminist  ?  "  said  Martin  surprised.  "  A 
believer  in  equality?  " 

" Yes,"  said  Werner,  "I  am ;  but,  as  the  world  is, 
things  will  always  appear  unequal.     I  believe  in  the 


HEIDELBERG  6i 

appearance  of  unequality.  That  perhaps  is  fact.  Such 
an  unequality  is  perhaps  a  real  unequality,  however. 
We  are  beginning  to  get  philosophical.  Do  not  lead 
me  to  discuss  fact  and  fancy,  spirit  and  matter.  I  get 
cold  shivers." 

At  that  moment  Max  Bauer  came  in  at  the  door. 

"  Hello !  "  he  said  softly,  in  a  gentle  voice ;  "  is  that 
Martin  Schiiler  with  you,  Werner?" 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  "it  is  me." 

"  Shall  I  go,  Werner  ?  "  Bauer  continued ;  "  are 
you  discussing  business  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Werner.  "  Max,  we  have  decided 
that  women  are  inferior  and  equal." 

"  Platonism.  I  am  not  clever.  Are  you  going  to 
argue  to  a  conclusion  ?  "  Max  was  quite  sociable  and 
not  at  all  bearish.  Evidently  daylight  did  not  suit 
him  and  nightlight  did. 

Martin  felt  eager  to  argue.  He  had  a  superficial 
intellect  quite  apart  from  his  musical  intellect,  and  he 
liked  indulging  it. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Werner ;  "  that  is  the  con- 
clusion :  women  are  inferior  and  equal." 

Max  stayed  a  few  minutes,  but  he  became  over- 
whelmed with  shyness  in  the  presence  of  Martin  and 
felt  his  gruff  mood  creeping  upon  him  again,  so 
he  said  good  night  as  politely  as  possible,  and  went 
away. 

"  He  dislikes  me,"  said  Martin. 


62  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  He  is  fond  of  Lili,"  said  Werner. 

"  Ah,  well/'  said  Martin,  "  I  seem  to  make  a  mess 
of  everything/' 

"  Do  not  begin  all  over  again,''  said  Werner. 

"No,"  said  Martin;  "let's  finish  about  women." 

"We  had,"  said  Werner,  "everything  is  finished. 
Finis !  I  am  about  to  die.  I  hope  I  shall  finish  your 
peahens." 

"  Don't !  "  said  Martin,  "  you  can't  possibly  die." 

"  It  is  quite  easy,"  said  Werner. 
,     "  Oh,  my  God,  don't  die ! "  said  Martin,  who  had 
never  met  death. 

"  The  consumption  of  my  vitals  is  almost  complete," 
said  Werner. 

"  What  you  need  is  to  go  out,"  said  Martin;  "  you're 
pale.    You  must  eat,  sleep,  and  take  exercise." 

"  I  cannot  walk,  unfortunately,"  said  Werner. 

"Can't  walk!" 

"  No,  I  gave  up  walking  last  week." 

"God!    What  do  you  do?" 

"  I  crawl  on  my  hands  and  knees." 

"  God !  how  horrible !  God  in  Heaven,  how  horri- 
ble!" 

"It  is  horrible.  Martin!  is  the  door  shut? — 
Martin!" 

"Yes." 

"  T'm  at  mv  end — T  must  talk.  I  feel  rejuvenated 
—I  feel  your  age.    I  must  tell  you — what  it  means — 


HEIDELBERG  63 

to  me — to  die/'  Werner  jerked  out  the  phrases.  "  I 
am  cynical.  I  am  sour.  You  know  me.  I  know 
myself,  I  know  all,  I  know  everything — I  am  wise, 
wiser  than  Pallas.  I  write  well.  I  am  jealous — I  am 
jealous  of  genius,  of  youth — oh,  of  youth,  of  youth, 
of  youth !  Now  I  am  ruining  the  personality  I  created 
before  you — I  am  disclosing  my  weaknesses.  I  want 
to  tell  you — it  means  a  lot — for  me — to  die.  Coward 
I  am."  He  smiled  and  blinked  his  eyes.  "  I'm  going 
out.  Quite  dark — black — soon.  Contemplation  does 
not  harden  me  to  that  fact." 

*'  Oh,  Werner !  "  said  Martin ;  "  Felix,  my  friend, 
my  friend ! "  He  grasped  both  Werner's  hands. 
"Shall  I  die  with  you?" 

Werner's  face  looked  suddenly  overjoyed. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  can  manage  by  myself";  and 
held  Martin's  hands  very  hard  and  drew  in  his  breath 
whistling  through  his  teeth. 

He  suddenly  relaxed.  "  Sentimental,"  he  said ; 
"  are  we  not?  Good  night." 

"  Am  I  to  go  ?  "  said  Martin. 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Werner.  "  Don't  talk  about 
me  to  your  friends." 

"  Well,  good  night,"  said  Martin.  "  Shall  I  come 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  As  you  wish,"  said  Werner. 

Martin  went  away  feeling  cold  and  creepy,  but 
during  that  night  he  remembered  that  Werner  had 


64  MARTIN  SCHULER 

indirectly  called  him  a  genius,  and  with  the  help  of  this 
he  got  back  his  confidence  and  his  self-esteem.  After 
that  he  had  another  bout  of  manliness,  during  which 
he  took  Werner's  advice  and  completed  a  few  things 
for  the  publishers. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DURING  the  next  few  weeks  Martin  spent 
much  of  his  time  with  Werner,  and  became 
so  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  Man  succumb- 
ing to  Death,  that  when  Werner  actually  died  he  was 
not  shocked  nor  did  it  seem  abnormal  and  peculiar  to 
discover  that  that  which  was  was  not.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Werner  had  been  sinking  slowly  into  a  hole, 
and  he  would  have  been  more  startled  if  Werner  had 
suddenly  sprung  out  of  it  than  if  he  had  suddenly  shot 
underground.  Werner  died  very  slowly;  day  by  day 
he  became  a  little  worse ;  day  by  day  his  man's  charac- 
ter slipped  off  him,  till  at  the  end  he  was  naked  as  it 
were,  his  real  self,  inexperienced,  gentle,  and  affection- 
ate. As  his  body  died  his  mind  discarded  the  clothing 
it  had  pulled  on  itself.  He  threw  off  his  knowledge 
of  the  world  and  was  left  a  believer  in  the  simplicity 
and  honesty  of  the  human  race.  He  threw  off  his  hard, 
useful,  intellectual,  critical  faculty,  and  was  left  in- 
genuous. He  threw  off  his  inexorable  attitude  towards 
smallness  of  mind  and  weakness  and  was  left  weak 
himself.  A  delicious  feeling  came  over  him  of  soft 
May  winds  and  incapacity  and  convalescence,  when 
the  bouts  of  pain,  which  were  infernal  torture,  sank 

65 


66  MARTIN  SCHULER 

to  soft,  pleasant  currents  under  morphic  influence.  He 
lay  dying  in  his  bed,  cleansed  and  sweet-sheeted  by 
Martin  and  Bertha.''  The  dust  had  gone  from  the 
floor,  many  mice  had  died  in  traps,  his  desk  was  pushed 
against  the  wall  with  the  lid  shut  over  straightened 
papers.  Nothing  of  this  interested  him,  nothing  he 
could  not  see  without  raising  his  head  existed.  He 
could  see  the  sky  out  of  the  window,  he  could  see  the 
ancient  cobwebs  under  the  ceiling,  he  could  see  people 
from  the  knees  up  when  they  stood  by  his  bed. 

Max  Bauer  used  to  come.  He  could  see  more  of 
Max  than  anybody.  Max  had  such  long  thighs.  He 
was  tall  in  consequence.  Max  sympathized  with  him 
in  the  right  way,  agreed  with  him  that  to  be  dead 
would  be  unpleasant  and  that  the  greatest  catastrophe 
of  existence  was  very  near,  quite  near  enough  to  be 
alarming.  Death  was  horribly  alarming  when  near; 
it  made  one  cry  in  the  night,  and  want  to  catch  hold  of 
a  human  being's  hand.  Surely  a  man  could  not  die  if 
he  held  a  living  man's  hand.  Such  things  do  not 
happen.  A  living  hand  does  not  clasp  a  dead  one.  The 
life  would  run  through  it  out  of  the  finger  tips  and 
bring  the  dead  life  back. 

Werner  wondf  ed  what  death  was.  Max  thought  it 
was  being  extinguished. 

"  It  must  be,"  said  Werner,  childishly.  "  I  feel  as 
if  I  were  going  out.    Out  and  out  and  out." 

"  It  is  very  queer,"  said  Max,  "  to  see  you  slowly 


HEIDELBERG  67 

passing  away.  I  feel  as  if  the  surplus,  what  has  gone, 
was  floating  about  like  a  fog  in  the  room.  Do  you 
feel  that  you  are  going  out  of  the  open  window  into  a 
distant  country  ?  *' 

"No,"  said  Werner;  "I  am  getting  slower  and 
slower.  I  feel  I  cover  less  and  less  space.  I  cover  now 
less  space  than  my  body.  When  I  have  shrunk  to  a 
point  in  my  mind  I  shall  die !  " 

"  Lili  is  ill,"  said  Max. 

Werner  was  not  interested ;  he  was  immensely  selfish 
just  before  his  death;  his  own  affairs  alone  interested 
him.    He  said  lazily,  however : 

"Perhaps  she  will  die!" 

"  She  is  making  herself  lovesick  over  that  fool." 

"  Oh,"  said  Werner  softly,  "  Martin !  Love  is  a 
wild  business,  Max.  I  remember,"  he  went  on,  drow- 
sily, "  I  used  to  fall  in  love  when  I  was  young. 
Always  in  love.  My  digestion  got  out  of  order,  I 
used  to  be  so  violently  in  love.  I  cannot  remember 
all  their  names  now — Marie  is  the  only  one.  She 
was  pretty — I  cannot  tell  you  how  pretty — with  soft 
pink  cheeks  and  curly  hair.  She  married  her  cousin 
because  of  family  affairs.  I  believe  I  am  dying  because 
I  let  myself  go  to  ruin  for  a  short  time  when  she  got 
married.  I  am  dying  of  love.  Max,  old  boy.  Perhaps 
Lili  will." 

Max  looked  tenderly  at  Werner,  and  Martin  came 
in. 


68  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"You  look  better  to-day/'  said  Martin. 

"  He  is  worse,'*  said  Max ;  "  one  day  nearer  his 
death." 

"  You  look  certainly  better,"  said  Martin.  "  Bauer, 
you  are  a  gloomy  beast  with  your  depressing  rubbish." 

"  I  am  worse,"  said  Werner ;  "  I  think  I  am  para- 
lyzed in  my  legs.  They  do  not  seem  to  be  there.  I 
feel  like  a  pool  of  blood  on  the  mattress." 

Martin  put  his  hand  under  Werner's  back. 

"No  blood;  that  wound  is  quite  clean  and 
bandaged." 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,"  said  Werner  with  a  sigh. 

"  No,"  said  Max,  "  he  meant  he  felt  as  if  he  himself 
were  reduced  to  blood  and  lay  in  an  oval  patch  on  the 
mattress." 

"  Yes,"  said  Werner. 

Martin  blushed  dark  red,  and  said ; 

"  I  see." 

"  Play,"  said  Werner. 

"There  is  no  piano,"  said  Martin. 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  said  Werner  to  Max. 

"  No  piano,"  said  Max,  softly. 

"  I  cannot  hear  them  when  they  talk  loudly,"  said 
Werner,  who  was  evidently  beginning  to  dream  again. 

Martin  stood  uneasily  by  the  bed. 

"  He'll  probably  die  in  a  day  or  two,"  said  Max. 

Werner  woke  up  at  the  mention  of  his  one  topic 
of  conversation. 


HEIDELBERG  69 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  am  nearly  done  for.*' 

"  Bertha  sent  these,"  said  Martin,  producing  a  pair 
of  bed-socks  and  an  enamelled  tin  of  soup. 

Nobody  laughed.  The  situation  was  one  which 
only  men  can  achieve  without  humor.  Martin  put  the 
objects  down  on  the  floor  and  said,  after  another 
pause  : 

"  Well,  good-by.    You  certainly  look  better." 

When  he  was  gone,  Werner  said,  "Do  I  look 
better?" 

"  You  look  restful,"  said  Max,  "  and  the  afternoon 
has  flushed  your  cheeks." 

"  Perhaps  I  am  better,"  said  Werner.  "  What  did 
Doctor  Kapp  say  to-day?  Perhaps  I  shall  recover. 
Max,  if  I  recover,  I'll  lead  a  totally  different  life.  How 
stupid  I  have  been;  what  a  lot  of  important  things  I 
have  ignored.  The  things  I  put  first!  At  one  time 
I  put  enjoyment,  and  then  love  of  women,  and  then 
work,  and  then  my  health.  That  was  too  late.  If  I 
recover  I  will  walk  about  amongst  men  and  women 
treating  them  all  as  human  beings.  I  fly  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other — Oh,  goddess!  Oh,  slut!  Oh, 
harlot!  Oh,  virgin!  Oh,  saint!  Oh,  villain!  Oh, 
genius !  Oh,  idiot !  "  He  began  to  ramble  on  about 
women.  "  I  have  so  much  to  say.  I  must  talk,  Max, 
about  men  and  women.  Be  a  happy  man.  Max.  I 
think  I  am  spreading  out  a  little.  I  feel  a  little  better, 
perhaps."    He  lay  silent  and  as  still  as  a  corpse.   Then 


70  MARTIN  SCHULER 

he  said,  "I  like  morphia.  The  sky  is  blue  to-day. 
Could  the  window  be  covered?  Those  blue  squares 
in  the  window  come  so  close  to  my  eyes  and  then  re- 
treat into  little  specks — ^beads  running  up  and  down 
strings.  The  world  used  to  be — Ah !  "  He  suddenly 
groaned  and  screamed  and  the  pain  began  again.  Max 
let  it  rage  a  little  while  until  he  began  to  look  like  a 
wild  beast  possessed  of  a  devil,  and  then  gave  him 
another  dose  out  of  a  little  bottle. 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  door,  and  Lili  came  in. 

"  How  is  the  poor  man  ?  "  she  whispered  to  Max, 

"It  is  only  a  question  of  time,  according  to  the 
doctor,"  said  Max.  "He  is  unpleasant  just  now;  he 
has  been  in  pain.  He  is  so  full  of  morphia,  I  had  to 
give  him  a  very  large  dose.    I  shouldn't  look  at  him.** 

"  I  would  like  to,**  said  Lili. 

"Well,**  said  Max,  "  I  would  not  look  at  him;  you 
might  feel  sick." 

"  You  are  becoming  a  doctor,  Maxishe.** 

"  Yes,**  he  said ;  "  they  are  all  fools.** 

They  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed.  Werner  was 
laboring  under  the  morphia.    He  did  not  look  a  man. 

"Terrible!"  said  Lili.  "Poor  creature!  If  I 
were  a  doctor  I  should  overdose  him.  Isn*t  it  queer, 
he  doesn't  look  real,  Max.    He  looks  like  a  dog.*' 

"Terrible!"  said  Max;  "he  was  himself  a  little 
time  ago." 

"  He  looks  savage." 


HEIDELBERG  71 

"Yes,"  said  Max. 

"  I  feel  he  dwindles  every  time  I  come  to  see  him — 
a  little  and  a  little  less.    Can  he  hear  us  ?  '* 

"  No,"  said  Max ;  "  he  is  fighting  with  dreams." 

"Oh,  Max,  isn't  it  horrible?  Dear,  dear  Max!" 
Lili  began  to  cry  a  little.  "  We  used  to  like  him,  and 
talk  to  him.  It  is  quite  incredible.  I  brought  him 
some  flowers  and  some  eggs.  I  can't  give  them  to 
him,  can  I  ?  I  feel  ashamed  of  having  brought  flowers 
and  eggs.'* 

"He'll  die  soon,"  said  Max;  "he  says  himself  his 
soul  is  dwindling  to  a  point." 

"How  dreadful!" 

"  He  is  quite  interested  in  it,"  said  Max ;  "  he  raves 
now  and  then  of  course,  when  it  bores  him,  and  he 
realizes  he  really  is  about  to  die." 

"  Poor  man  1  Max,  does  Martin  come  here  ?  "  She 
put  her  hand  on  her  brother's  arm. 

"  He  has  been,"  said  Max  dryly. 

Things  seemed  bare  to  Lili,  and  raw,  standing 
there  before  Werner's  half-dead  body.  She  felt  at 
the  place  in  creation  where  we  have  our  bodies  opened 
and  their  workings  displayed  together  with  the  work- 
ings of  our  souls.  She  was  not  aware  that  those 
were  her  precise  feelings,  but  she  went  on  talking  in 
a  manner  which  showed  that  they  were. 

"  Max,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  seem  to  think  Martin 
and  I  were  very  wicked  in  that  wood." 


72  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  It  was  not  your  fault,"  said  Max. 

"He  seems  somehow  a  special  sort  of  man/*  'said 
Lili ;  "  I  can't  blame  him  either.  I  feel  if  any  one 
ought  to  be  blamed  it  is  me.  I  have  been  thinking 
a  lot,  Max.  Max,  it  isn't  a  very  simple  world, 
is  it?" 

"  No,"  said  Max. 

"It  seems  so  mixed.  I  can't  quite  understand," 
said  Lili ;  "  and  in  the  middle  there  seems  to  be  some- 
thing beautiful  and  powerful,  and  that  sometimes, 
very  often — oh,  I  can't  explain — seems,  it  seems  as 
if,  well,  it  was  a  kind  of  Martin." 

"  You  have  him  on  the  brain,  that's  all !  "  said  Max. 
"  He  is  an  ordinary  sort  of  young  fool." 

"No,  no!"  said  Lili,  "he's  not!"  She  forgot 
Werner  and  leaned  her  hands  on  the  footrail  of  the 
bed,  gazing  into  space.  "  He's  not.  He's  above  all 
this — Heidelberg  and  us.  I  can't  explain.  It  seems 
a  bit  as  if  he  was  lent  to  us,  like  God  lent  Christ  to 
Mary." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Max;  "he  isn't  divine." 

Lili  went  on  talking,  as  if  to  nobody.  "  Divine, 
that's  it;  yes,  that  is  what  it  is.  If  the  Kaiser's  son 
came  to  your  school,  Max,  and  sat  in  your  class,  you'd 
know  what  I  mean." 

"  He  won't,  thank  God !  "  said  Max,  looking  at  her. 
"You  have  got  him  on  the  brain." 

"Yes,  and  in  my  heart,"  said  Lili.     "Oh,  Max! 


HEIDELBERG  73 

Vm  pulled  to  bits,  and  111  never  have  him.  Oh!  I 
feel  like  wanting  to  be  his  house  servant." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Max.  "Don't  be  so  silly,  Lili; 
he's  a  rotten  character." 

Lili  flashed  round  at  him.  "  He's  not !  "  she  said ; 
"  he's  a  genius !  "  Her  voice  was  so  deep  that  Max 
started.  "  Oh,  Max !  "  she  said,  "  I  am  so  lonely." 
She  threw  herself  in  his  arms. 

"  My  pet,"  he  said,  "  don't  cry ;  be  brave,  sweet  girl. 
Werner  was  just  as  unhappy  when  he  was  a  young 
fellow." 

At  the  mention  of  Werner,  Lili  recollected  herself. 

"  Oh,  how  wicked  of  me  to  talk  like  this  and  forget 
that  poor  man !  Poor  man !  I'm  not  the  unhappiest, 
but  I'd  rather  die.  Max,  if  you  knew,  oh,  if  you 
knew!" 

Max  was  bending  over  Werner.  He  came  round  to 
Lili  after  fidgeting  with  the  sheet  in  some  manner  in 
the  dusk. 

"He's  asleep,"  said  Max,  who  knew  that  Werner 
had  just  died;  "  let  us  go." 

"Where  shall  I  put  the  eggs  and  flowers?"  said 
Lili ;  "  where  shall  I  put  them  ?  "  Max  took  the  eggs 
and  put  them  in  his  pocket.    "  The  flowers — put  them 

"  he  caught  his  breath  because  he  had  been  very 

fond  of  Werner — "  put  them — on  the  sheet."  She 
put  them  on  the  sheet,  and  knew  by  the  stillness  that 
crept  through  the  silence  what  had  happened,  but  she 


74  MARTIN  SCHULER 

said  nothing,  and  was  not  shocked  because  she  had  no 
direct  evidence  of  touch  or  announcement.  She  was 
hardly  aware  in  her  mind  of  the  fact :  it  pervaded  her 
senses,  her  body.  Max  drew  her  away ;  he  was  trem- 
bling. She  gripped  his  arm  to  comfort  him.  Now 
she  knew  for  certain  that  Werner  was  dead,  but  her 
tact  kept  her  from  speaking.  She  led  Max  to  the  door 
and  they  went  out  of  the  room  together  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WERNER  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  not  by  be- 
lief but  by  accident.  At  the  age  of  nineteen 
he  had  been  very  religious  and  had  become 
a  convert.  Since  that  age  he  had  remained  a  Roman 
Catholic,  but  it  was  a  mere  superscripture,  a  label  di- 
recting in  which  cemetery  he  should  enjoy  his  last 
repose,  and  what  ought  to  be  done  and  said  when  he 
was  consigned  again  to  the  dust.  The  Church  never 
forgets  her  children,  and  soon  after  his  death,  which 
Max  made  officially  known,  a  Sister  and  Father  came 
to  do  what  they  could  for  his  stray  soul,  and  the 
Sister  remained  to  watch  and  pray  all  night.  It  was 
a  privilege  to  sit  by  the  beautiful  dead;  and  besides, 
sleep  is  easy  in  a  chair  with  arms. 

Directly  Martin  heard  of  Werner*s  death  he  seemed 
pleased;  he  sighed  with  relief,  and  if  we  always  said 
exactly  what  we  felt,  would  have  ejaculated,  "  Thank 
God,  no  more  going  up  those  horrible  stairs !  " 

Martin  was  not  cynical;  he  thought  he  was  sorry 
|Werner  was  dead,  and  said  so.  Bertha  was  very 
sorry,  and  cried  a  little  over  his  "  happy  release,"  as 
her  mother  called  it.  Martin  said,  "  Poor  chap !  poor 
chap !  "  a  few  times,  and  then  "  Poor  chap  1 "  Hke  a 

75 


76  MARTIN  SCHULER 

machine  that  makes  one  last  revolution  before  it  grad- 
ually stops.  Werner  belonged  to  the  past,  to-morrow 
he  would  be  quite  past.  Martin  spent  that  evening 
alone  in  his  room  meditating;  his  meditations  strayed 
from  love,  from  Lili  whom  he  no  longer  loved,  to 
burials  and  after  death.  He  paused  a  moment  to  re- 
member Werner's  great  kindness  to  him  in  not  moral- 
izing over  his  little  affair  with  Lili,  and  suspected 
Werner  of  arguing  Max  into  quiet  anger.  He  won- 
dered if  Max  would  ever  murder  him  in  a  temper;  he 
seemed  so  fond  of  Lili,  seemed  to  guard  her  like  a 
father-brother-husband.  Short  of  that,  a  man  like 
Max,  a  mere  schoolmaster,  could  do  him  little  or  no 
harm.  He  dismissed  the  thought;  it  was  too  trivial. 
He  was  right  in  dismissing  it;  Max  was  too  sane  and 
gentle  to  do  anything  violent,  and  too  fond  of  Lili. 
What  gossip  originates  in  meditation!  After  a  time 
he  began  to  conjecture  what  influence  Werner  had  had 
upon  himself.  It  seemed  little  or  none;  Werner  was 
an  admirable  person ;  he  left  one  alone,  yet  made  one 
realize  the  value  of  endeavor  and  attainment  without 
ever  talking  about  them.  But,  of  course,  he  had  abom- 
inable faults  and  deficiencies;  he  was  so  excessively 
private,  that  was  his  worst  fault:  private  was  written 
all  over  him.  He  began  to  die  when  he  began  to  give 
away  his  privacy.  He  was  conceited  and  had  no  end 
of  an  idea  of  himself,  and  was  terribly  contemptuous 
of  less  brilliant  people.    Martin  was  glad  he  would  no 


HEIDELBERG  77 

longer  be  made  to  feel  small,  and  yet  he  felt  lonely. 
He  seemed  to  have  become,  without  his  own  consent, 
an  independent  man  with  his  own  future  upon  his 
hands.  There  was  no  one  to  complain  to,  no  one  to 
give  him  sincere  praise.  He  felt  hurt.  Poor  Werner ! 
A  lump  came  in  his  throat.  He  thought  he  was  sorry 
for  Werner.  Poor  Werner,  he  did  not  even  live  to 
finish  "  the  Peahens."  Martin  began  to  wonder  where 
"  the  Peahens  '*  was.  He  had  lost  acute  interest  in  it 
for  the  time  being,  though  he  still  looked  upon  it  as  his 
coming  masterpiece,  a  kind  of  life-work.  "  It  must 
be  in  his  room,''  he  said  to  himself.  "The  devil! 
I'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  it."  He  began  remembering 
his  former  thoughts  about  it,  and  the  memory  roused 
in  him  a  new  burst  of  ambition.  He  thought  what  a 
little  he  had  written  for  it,  and  then  what  a  lot ;  what 
a  lot  if  he  counted  arias,  what  a  little  if  he  compared 
part  and  bulk.  The  delicious,  rapturous  harmonies 
were  still  behind  the  beyond.  The  astonishing  modula- 
tions still  bridged  the  gulf  of  unknown  heavens.  The 
brilliant  variations,  the  broad  and  deep  basis  of  the 
whole,  still  rose  a  pyramid  in  an  ethereal  desert. 
There  was  good  and  strong  music  in  his  black  port- 
folio, and  he  was  only  twenty-one.  The  beyond,  the 
heavens,  the  desert,  were  in  his  mind.  He  was  not  yet 
able  to  see  them;  but  every  month,  every  emotion, 
every  piece  of  knowledge,  every  attempt,  he  came 
nearer  to  them.    Some  day  he  would  be  able  to  visual- 


78  MARTIN  SCHULER 

ize  them,  some  day  to  realize  them.  Realization  for 
him  meant  to  be  able  to  turn  into  sound.  He  felt 
proud  of  himself  and  a  little  sure.  Some  things  he 
could  never  forget,  some  things  caught  in  his  mind 
like  the  cogs  of  a  mountain  train.  He  could  not  slip. 
Suddenly  it  dawned  upon  him  that  all  Werner's 
manuscripts  would  sooner  or  later  be  seized  by  his 
creditors.  He  was  known  to  be  in  debt.  He  would 
be  buried  to-morrow;  to-morrow  morning  somebody 
would  go  and  seal  everything  with  red  seals.  That 
would  be  a  catastrophe  for  the  peahens.  The  creditors 
would  either  publish  it,  or  require  large  royalties  for 
its  loan  from  him,  Martin.  Martin  Schuler  became 
very  agitated.  There  seemed  no  chance  of  doing  any- 
thing. He  wished  he  had  made  Werner  give  it  to  him 
that  day.  He  hated  the  thought,  but  gradually  it 
seemed  to  him  essential  to  pay  the  corpse  a  farewell 
visit,  and,  if  possible,  to  steal  the  manuscript  at  the 
same  time.  When  he  had  formulated  it,  he  put  it 
away  from  him,  but  it  recurred.  'He  tossed  up,  but 
forgot  to  remember  the  result,  which  was  against 
going,  because  he  knew  he  must  go.  Soon  he  put  on 
his  best  black  clothes  to  pay  his  last  respects  to  the 
dead,  and  told  his  mother  as  he  went  out  of  the  house 
that  he  was  going  to  have  a  last  look  at  Werner.  He 
looked  agitated,  and  his  mother  said  sentimentally  to 
Bertha,  as  he  went  out,  "  Poor  Martische  is  deeply 
moved  for  his  friend."    Certainly  his  intentions  were 


HEIDELBERG  79 

hateful  to  him,  but  it  seemed  absolutely  necessary  to 
get  hold  of  the  peahens  that  night.  Several  times, 
however,  on  the  way  to  Werner's  house,  Schiller 
stopped  and  hesitated;  once  he  stopped  because  his 
deed  seemed  sacrilegious,  and  because  he  did  not  want 
to  go  where  Max  Bauer  and  others  probably  were; 
once  because  he  might  be  caught  in  felony,  and  once 
because  he  was  afraid  of  spirits  and  devils;  but  all  the 
time  the  fact  was  he  could  hardly  bring  himself  to 
go  near  a  dead  body.  At  last  he  came  to  Werner's 
house.  It  was  nearly  midnight  and  very  dark.  He 
had  a  covered  lamp  in  his  hand. 

The  door  was  shut  and  locked,  the  bell  wire  was 
rusted.  Upstairs  Werner  lay  dead  on  his  bed,  and 
the  Sister  with  the  dead,  old  Sister  Eulalie,  had  fallen 
asleep,  so  Martin,  even  if  he  had  wished,  could  not 
have  got  any  one  to  open  the  door  for  him.  He  tried 
the  door  softly;  it  wheezed  on  rusty  hinges,  but  re- 
mained closed,  so  he  was  forced  to  get  in  at  a  window. 
The  felonious  nature  of  his  entrance  led  him  to  be- 
lieve he  was  a  criminal.  He  took  off  his  boots  in  the 
deserted  lower  room  and  prowled  upstairs.  He 
prowled  past  uninhabited  rooms,  up  the  narrow  old 
stairs — a  stranger  in  a  strange  house,  a  stranger  to 
himself.  He  almost  stopped  and  cried  out  to  him- 
self, "Who's  that?  What  do  you  want?  Don't  you 
dare  to  rob  the  dead ! "  Then  he  remembered  that 
the  ghoulish  prowler  was  himself,  and  thought  of 


8o  MARTIN  SCHULER 

battlefields  and  fingers  cut  off  hands  with  rings  still 
on  them,  widows  hoping  for  mementoes,  and  prison. 

Werner's  door  was  open.  Martin  shaded  his  lamp 
and  went  in.  The  fat  old  Sister  snored  in  her  chair, 
her  beads  in  her  hand.  Beside  her  lay  a  long  white 
object  on  a  bed,  and  on  the  top  of  it  reposed  a  bunch 
of  mixed  autumn  flowers.  Probably  Werner's  breast 
was  under  the  flowers.  Martin  moved  softly  round 
past  the  old  Sister,  and  took  a  hasty  look  at  the  man 
under  the  sheet.  He  had  a  very  faint  resemblance  to 
Werner — like  a  bad  drawing  by  an  amateur.  Martin 
knew  he  was  Werner  only  because  he  knew  that 
Werner  had  died,  and  lay  dead  under  that  sheet  on 
that  bed.  He  put  back  the  sheet  reverently  and  mum- 
bled something  about  God,  and  then  went  to  the  bureau 
where  the  manuscript  usually  reposed.  The  bureau 
had  been  reversed  and  pushed  with  its  face  to  the  wall 
in  order  to  give  the  dying  man  more  room.  This  was 
awkward.  Martin  did  not  want  in  the  least  to  wake 
the  old  dead-watcher  by  dragging  the  bureau  about 
on  the  bare  boards  of  the  floor.  He  began  to  be 
frightened  again,  and  almost  thought  of  abandoning 
the  manuscript.  He  wished  there  had  been  other  ten- 
ants in  the  house,  then  Werner  would  have  been  put 
in  the  Morgue.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  he  in- 
spected the  bureau  and  found  that  it  could  be  got  into 
without  moving  it,  for  it  had  a  sloping  front  which 
let  down.    He  prayed  that  the  poem  was  not  in  any  of 


HEIDELBERG  8i 

the  drawers.  It  was  not  in  the  top.  He  cursed.  Fear, 
desire,  and  rage  made  him  strong  and  resourceful. 
He  became  a  maniac  for  possession.  He  lifted  the 
whole  bureau  bodily  by  its  top  and  turned  it.  He  did 
it  quietly.  It  was  a  marvellous  feat  of  strength  be- 
cause the  bureau  was  quite  large  and  also  full  of 
papers.  The  manuscript  was  not  in  any  of  the 
drawers.  He  put  things  in  order;  but  not  daring  to 
repeat  his  feat,  which  had  strained  him  a  little,  he 
merely  put  the  bureau  on  a  line  with  the  wall,  and 
left  it. 

Maddening!  In  rage  one  has  queer  ideas.  Martin 
became  certain  that  the  manuscript  was  somewhere 
about  the  dead  body.  Horrified  with  himself,  he 
searched  everywhere  else,  but  the  idea  followed  him 
about  the  room,  pointing  to  the  corpse.  At  length  he 
forced  himself  to  approach  it,  and  turned  back  the 
death  sheet  a  little.  The  eyes  seemed  eternally  shut, 
stuck  down  with  glue.  He  drew  the  sheet  further 
back,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  in  fear  upon  the  dead 
features  ran  his  hand  under  the  cold  body  and  felt 
along  between  it  and  the  bed.  He  expected  to  feel 
a  pool  of  blood,  just  as  earlier  in  the  day  he  had  ex- 
pected to  feel  a  pool  of  blood. 

In  the  mattress  was  a  lump.  Joy  bounded  in  his 
heart.  He  knelt  down,  and,  careless  of  the  corpse, 
pushed  the  mattress  up.  There  was  what  he  sought! 
He  dragged  the  papers  out,  crushed  them  into  his 


82  MARTIN  SCHtJLER 

pocket,  straightened  up  the  dead  as  well  as  he  could, 
and  scurried  out  of  the  house. 

He  had  become  a  thief ! 

For  several  nights  afterwards  he  dreamed  of  that 
most  ugly,  cold,  unrecognizable  piece  of  flesh  that  had 
been  his  friend;  and  his  distaste  for  the  name  and 
manuscript  of  the  peahens  lasted  a  whole  year. 


LEIPSIC 


LEIPSIC 

CHAPTER  VIII 

A  S  an  oyster  covers  a  pearl  with  scales,  so  Martin 
r\  covered  Werner's  death,  and  Lili  and  the  pea- 
hens, with  days  and  months  of  forgetfulness. 
Twenty-eight  months  lay  smooth  over  the  past,  and 
only  those  with  long  memories  and  awkward  imagina- 
tions thought  less  well  of  him  than  he  did  of  himself, 
and  saw  the  little  piece  of  grit  that  had  got  into  his 
shell.  Martin  was  now  in  the  first  fullness  of  man- 
hood. His  father  was  dead,  therefore  he  had  a  re- 
spectable income,  and  his  mother  lived  with  her  daugh- 
ter and  son-in-law,  the  Schuler-Markheims.  He  had 
been  to  Paris  for  a  year  to  study  the  Modern  Move- 
ment, and  considered  himself  therefore  a  man  of  the 
world.  The  municipal  band  played  from  time  to  time 
one  or  two  of  his  lighter  compositions,  the  theater  had 
produced  one  of  his  sentimental  operettas,  he  had  set 
one  or  two  bad  songs,  by  bad  local  poets,  to  indifferent 
tunes;  for  these  reasons  persons  began  to  point  him 
out  to  one  another,  and  being  well-off  and  good-look- 
ing the  best  people  in  the  town  invited  him  to  their 
parties.    Some  people  thought  he  took  his  elevation  in 

85 


86  MARTIN  SCHXJLER 

society  a  little  too  much  for  granted,  and  his  sister  held 
her  breath  when  she  heard  him  for  the  first  time  joke 
with  Frau  Professor  Kort.  His  sister  was  not  invited 
to  those  houses  which  he  frequented,  but  the  great 
cannot  monopolize  an  art  exhibition,  and  it  was  there 
Bertha  heard  him  make  the  joke  that  finally  pointed 
out  to  her  that  indeed  her  brother  was  lost  to  her  for 
ever,  and  had  sailed  out  of  the  dim  light  of  her  own 
social  life.  The  joke  caused  her  to  hold  her  breath, 
but  looking  down  his  body  instinctively  to  his  feet,  she 
saw  how  classically  they  stood  upon  the  floor  and  how 
his  elegant  body  was  perfectly  poised  upon  them.  She 
blamed  him  because  he  was  level-headed  and  at  home 
where  she  was  modest  and  nervous,  but  she  admired 
him  because  he  was  liked,  and  because  she  had  had  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  his  upbringing. 

Bertha's  friends  were  astonished  that  she  did  not 
devote  her  conversation  to  this  family  marvel,  pray 
her  prayers  to  it,  and  spread  her  husband,  her  house, 
and  her  children,  born  and  unborn,  upon  the  back- 
ground of  the  canvas  of  its  life,  or,  to  use  a  prettier 
simile,  throw  her  love,  her  babes,  her  happiness  like 
roses  on  her  brother's  path.  Frau  Schiller,  her  mother, 
joined  with  her  in  her  reserved  and  decent  attitude, 
and  people  said  they  had  quarreled  with  Martin,  and, 
because  he  was  hardly  ever  with  them,  that  Herman, 
Bertha's  husband,  had  forbidden  him  to  come  to  the 
house.    This  gave  rise  to  the  opinion  that  some  people 


LEIPSIC  87 

were  cutting  off  their  noses  to  spite  their  faces.  Her- 
man Markheim  had  been  heard  to  say,  it  is  true,  that 
Martin  was  not  his  sort ;  and  people  added,  because  he, 
Markheim,  didn't  care  for  young  fools  who  painted 
the  town  red,  even  if  they  were  Wagners.  All  this 
did  not  affect  Martin.  He  was  unconscious  of  Ber- 
tha's pride  and  of  what  people  said  about  his  affairs. 
He  lived  alone  in  a  good  part  of  the  town.  He  had 
few  worries.  His  love  affairs  were  amiable  and  a 
little  sordid;  he  had  no  serious  friend  like  Werner, 
and  the  delicate,  too-familiar  relationships  of  home- 
life  no  longer  existed  to  trouble  him. 

When  his  last  piece  of  band-music  had  been  played 
so  often  that  the  brain  was  sore  with  hearing  it,  and 
people  began  to  ask  themselves  what  he  would  do 
next  to  delight  them,  he  condescended  to  try  an  experi- 
ment upon  them:  he  produced,  with  the  aid  of  the 
graduates  and  undergraduates  of  the  Heidelberg  Uni- 
versity, a  short  musical  drama,  entitled,  "  The  Poverty 
of  Croesus."  The  production  took  place  at  the  theater 
about  midsummer  and  astonished  Heidelberg,  though 
it  depressed  the  actors,  that  is  to  say  until  the  full 
report  was  published  in  the  newspaper.  The  news- 
paper was  so  eulogistic,  and  the  parents,  aunts,  and 
lovers  of  the  actors  so  Hithyrambic,  that  Heidelberg 
was  full  of  swelled  heads  for  several  weeks.  This, 
again,  did  not  affect  Martin. 

There  was  at  the  University  of  Heidelberg  at  that 


88  MARTIN  SCHULER 

time  a  young  man  of  the  name  of  Steinbach,  an  ugly 
and  thick  young  man  who  had  come  to  Heidelberg  for 
a  summer  course  to  fill  in  the  time  between  the  end 
of  his  career  at  Leipsic  University  and  the  beginning 
of  his  career  at  he  knew  not  what.  Like  many  other 
brilliant  young  men  who  are  too  rich  and  not  scholarly 
enough  to  enclose  themselves  for  life  in  a  classical  or 
philosophical  world,  he  was  lost  when  his  terms  at 
college  came  to  an  end.  He  had  a  strong  desire  to  do 
something,  particularly  something  that  would  entail 
notoriety,  so  he  went  to  Heidelberg  University  in  order 
to  get  to  an  out-of -the- world  place  where  youth  was 
rife  and  where  he  could  think.  In  a  fortnight,  owing 
to  having  assimilated  its  spirit,  he  decided  that  to  re- 
main was  waste  of  time.  He  thought  of  going  to 
Cambridge  in  England.  The  day  that  he  was  in- 
troduced to  Martin  Schiiler  by  von  der  Gorst  he 
changed  his  mind.  This  was  before  the  performance 
of  "  Croesus."  Von  der  Gorst  was  to  be  "  Croesus." 
He  was  chief  classic  of  his  year,  and  had  a  fine  bari- 
tone. When  he  introduced  Steinbach  to  Martin,  Stein- 
bach shook  hands,  and  said  he  was  extremely  pleased 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  one  with  such  a  future 
before  him.  He  eyed  Martin  steadily,  and  determined 
not  to  decide  then  and  there  if  he  really  had  a  future 
before  him,  but  to  wait.  That  same  spring  after- 
noon, after  the  departure  of  Martin,  von  der  Gorst 
told  him  about  the  approaching  performance.    When 


LEIPSIC  89 

he  was  tired  of  Gorst's  florid  optimism  about  the  af- 
fair, he  went  home.  He  sauntered  under  the  budding 
linden-trees  along  the  river  road  with  a  feeling  of 
joyful  interest  in  his  mind.  The  houses  across  the 
way,  and  the  river  on  his  right,  and  the  dusty,  sun- 
flecked  road,  and  the  dry,  dusty  gutter  pleased  him. 
He  liked  them  for  the  first  time.  This  morning  they 
had  tired  and  bored  him,  now  he  liked  them.  The 
soft  spring  breeze  blowing  in  gentle  puffs  from  the 
river,  the  quiet,  slow-moving  water,  and  the  gentle 
shivers  of  the  little  leaves  on  the  trees,  soothed  him 
deliciously;  he  sauntered  along,  noticing  the  summer- 
like quality  of  the  dust,  the  summer-like  rattle  of  the 
carts  and  cabs  along  the  road;  the  houses  across  the 
way  no  longer  showed  naked  through  the  bare  boughs  ; 
green  leaves  partially  hid  them,  and  soft  air  permeated 
with  sunshine,  with  the  scent  of  trees  and  particles  of 
dust  from  the  road,  focused  them,  so  that  they  did  not 
appear,  as  in  wet  and  cold  weather,  to  be  starting  for- 
ward into  the  road  upon  passersby.  Steinbach  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  Martin,  and  one  is  always  happy 
when  one  has  just  taken  a  fancy  to  somebody.  He 
was  not  thinking,  like  most  people,  "  I  must  see  that 
chap  again;  shall  I  ask  him  to  the  theater,  shall  I  ^o 
to  his  rooms,  shall  I  write  ?  "  He  was  thinking,  "  I 
shall  not  make  his  acquaintance  just  yet.  I  will  notice 
him  and  glean  facts  about  him,  and  when  I  know  him, 
perhaps  after  he  has  produced  his  opera,  1*11  get  him 


90  MARTIN  SCHULER 

to  know  me."  He  paused  and  looked  over  the  river. 
"  When  IVe  heard  his  opera,"  he  decided,  "  it  will  be 
time  to  get  him  to  know  me." 

Not  for  a  moment  did  he  think  that  any  one  else, 
or  any  number  of  any  one  elses,  would  crowd  him 
out;  he  was  quite  certain  that  at  his  own  time  he 
would  be  able  to  get  what  he  wanted.  Of  what  he 
wanted  he  had  no  clear  idea,  but  a  thought  not  ex- 
pressed in  words  began  to  haunt  his  mind.  He  walked 
on  for  five  minutes,  then  turned  down  a  narrow  street 
to  the  left  and  disappeared  from  the  public  on  the 
river  road. 


CHAPTER  IX 

STEINBACH  sat  amongst  the  audience  at  the 
students'  performance  of  Martin's  "  The  Poverty 
of  Croesus."  He  sat  solidly  and  silently,  with 
wide  open  blue  eyes  behind  powerful  pince-nez  that 
magnified  them  to  imbecility  and  made  them  bulge. 
His  round,  pink  head  seemed  stuck  with  glue  into  his 
tight,  shining  collar.  His  nose  rose  into  a  snub  above 
a  short  golden  crop  of  hairs  that  he  wore  as  a  mus- 
tache. His  mouth  was  large  and  full  of  admirable 
white  teeth,  and  his  hair,  which  was  sandy,  was  parted 
and  brushed  in  the  English  fashion.  He  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Martin,  who  conducted  his  own  composition, 
and  his  mind  became  concentrated  critical  faculty  and 
power  of  judgment.  Martin  looked  imposing  in  the 
conductor's  chair.  His  black  hair  was  thick  and  oily, 
and  brushed  back  in  the  solid  wave  set  in  fashion  by 
Beethoven.  He  had  a  small,  dark,  square  mustache 
clipped  along  the  line  of  his  upper  lip,  and  down  the 
lines  from  his  nose  to  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  He 
might  have  been  twenty-eight  years  old,  but  he  was 
barely  twenty-four.  He  wore  pince-nez,  but  rather 
from  affectation  than  from  necessity.  His  head,  arms, 
and  shoulders  looked  fine  and  able  against  the  light 

91 


92  MARTIN  SCHULER 

background  of  the  stage,  and  Bertha,  who  was  amongst 
the  audience,  sighed  with  relief  because  he  showed  no 
signs  of  physical  decadence.  He  wore  a  fine  black 
doth  coat  and  dress  trousers,  the  coat  cut  like  a  dinner 
jacket,  no  waistcoat,  a  soft  white  shirt,  a  high  double 
collar,  and  a  small  black  tie  of  the  day  variety  that 
resembled  his  mustache  and  repeated  its  design. 
Upon  his  hands  he  had  white  kid  gloves  with  black 
markings.  Frau.von  Arnim,  who  at  that  time  had  a 
sentimental  attachment  for  him,  thought  this  was  a 
pity  because  it  hid  the  fascinating  way  his  fingers 
turned  up  at  the  ends.  He  looked  conceited  and 
prosperous,  and,  from  the  back,  impressive.  From 
the  stage  he  was  terrifying;  one  could  see  him  bite 
his  lips  and  swear  when  response  was  not  forthcom- 
ing. His  manner  assured  one  of  failure  before  one  had 
failed,  and  frightened  the  last  vestige  of  confidence 
out  of  the  performers.  Von  der  Gorst,  who  acted 
Croesus,  alone  saved  the  situation  from  fiasco.  From 
the  outbursts  of  applause,  however,  one  would  have 
concluded  that  a  masterpiece  had  been  most  magni- 
ficently exhibited. 

When  the  affair  was  over,  and  von  der  Gorst  was 
in  the  dressing-room  with  his  wig  in  his  hand,  Martin 
sulked  in  and  burst  into  self -condemnatory  rage. 

"  The  gods  be  damned !  "  he  cried ;  "  I  have  made 
a  fool  of  myself.  What  acting!  What  apes,  what 
cows!    They  could  not  put  their  tights  on  decently. 


LEIPSIC  93 

Can  one  conduct  when  one  is  distracted  by  crooked 
leggings !    Damnation !  " 

"  The  acting  was  awful,"  said  von  der  Gorst,  dis- 
interring his  young  mustache  from  grease  paint; 
"  that  was  not  your  fault,  old  chap.  You  pulled  hor- 
rible faces ! " 

"  Did  I?  "  said  Martin;  "  what  has  that  to  do  with 
it?" 

"  There  was  a  man  in  the  audience,"  went  on  von 
der  Gorst,  "  with  ghastly  eyes.  When  I  first  came  on 
I  could  not  see  anything  else.  They  bulged  and  shone 
in  that  beastly  dark  cavern." 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  said  Martin. 
*'  People  from  other  towns  were  there.  I  might  have 
made  a  hit.    It  was  a  fiasco." 

"  No,"  said  von  der  Gorst ;  "  nearly,  but  not  quite. 
The  music  was  all  right.  You  cannot  help  the  sheep- 
ishness  of  the  students." 

"Whatever  failure  there  was,"  growled  Martin, 
**  my  fault  or  not,  will  be  put  down  to  me.  I  tell  you 
I  will  never  produce  another  cursed  thing  in  this  hell 
of  a  town." 

"  Don't  pull  faces  next  time,"  said  Gorst,  laughing. 
"  Really,  the  audience  thought  the  whole  affair 
Wonderful,  and,  for  a  citizen  of  this  town,  rather 
magical." 

"  Oh,  yes,  say  straight  off  it  was  good  for  an  ama- 
teur!" Martin  scowled  ferociously,  and  snapped  his 


94  MARTIN  SCHULER 

pince-nez,  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  in  half  with  his 
fingers. 

Steinbach  sauntered  in. 

"  You  are  not  an  amateur,"  he  said  quietly;  "  may  I 
compliment  you,  Herr  von  Schiiler?" 

Martin  was  not  called  von  Schiiler  as  a  rule.  Stein- 
bach thus  paid  him  a  delicate  compliment. 

"  Those  were  your  eyes,  then,"  said  von  der  Gorst 
and  laughed. 

Steinbach  smiled  and  showed  all  his  beautiful  white 
teeth.  "  Windows  which  not  only  admit  but  also  shed 
the  light ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  sat  down  on  a  packing 
case  marked  "  Manskoff  &  Sohne." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  nobody  said  anything. 
Von  der  Gorst  went  on  with  his  operations,  which 
seemed  to  be  rather  painful;  Martin  fitted  and  refit- 
ted his  broken  glasses  together. 

"  You  have  broken  your  glasses,"  said  Steinbach. 
"  The  glass  is  broken,  and  the  play  is  done."  Martin 
took  no  notice,  and  Steinbach  looked  at  his  watch  and 
said  very  politely,  "  May  I  call  upon  you  to-morrow?  " 

Martin  felt  pleased.  He  answered  cordially,  "  Any 
time.  You  may  walk  home  with  me  to  supper  if  you 
care  to."  The  truth  was  he  wanted  to  hear  somebody 
criticize  his  music,  particularly  somebody  who  was  not 
stupid.  He  wanted  to  say  then  and  there,  "Tell 
me  what  did  you  think  of  the  thing?  "  but  von  der 
Gorst  was  present,  and  he  also  felt  averse  to  open  the 


LEIPSIC  95 

subject  although  he  longed  to  do  so.  If  he  was  shy- 
it  was  a  new  sensation.  He  would  not  have  felt  shy  if 
he  could  have  thought  of  a  good  roundabout  sen- 
tence to  begin  with.  He  was  too  tired  to  go  straight 
to  the  point  and  afraid,  because  he  was  tired,  of  hear- 
ing something  not  to  his  liking.  He  thought  he  would 
be  sick  if  in  answer  to  a  plain  question  Steinbach  had 
said  his  play  was  bad,  or  might  have  been  better,  or 
that  he  had  flown  too  high,  or  that  he,  Steinbach, 
would  like  to  hear  something  else  before  thinking  him 
a  genius,  or  even  that  it  was  quite  good. 

Steinbach  looked  at  his  watch  again,  and  answered, 
"  Thank  you,  I  will."  Von  der  Gorst  was  exposing 
a  tender  fencing  wound  on  his  cheek;  he  looked  at 
Steinbach  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  who  stared^ 
solemnly  back  at  him.  "That  looks  very  painful," 
said  Steinbach ;  then  turned  to  Martin  and  asked  when 
and  where  he  was  to  meet  him,  or  if  they  were  going 
now. 

"Meet  me  in  half  an  hour  by  the  church  in  the 
Markt  Platz,  if  that  is  not  too  late,"  he  answered. 
He  wanted  to  find  out  what  Gorst  thought  of  Stein- 
bach, though  he  really  did  not  care.  He  was  sensi- 
tive and  silly  that  evening. 

"Very  well,"  said  Steinbach,  and  turned  to  go. 
"We  shall  meet  again."  When  he  was  out  of  the 
room,  von  der  Gorst  said : 

"That's  a  queer  fish." 


qS  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"Yes,"  said  Martin;  "his  appearance  is  unprepos- 
sessing." 

"  Look  here,"  said  von  der  Gorst,  through  whistles 
of  pain,  "  come  to  lunch  to-morrow.  Damn  this 
plaster ! "     Blood  was  trickling  down  his  cheek. 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Martin,  for  no  reason  but  that  he 
felt  inexpressibly  bored  with  him  at  that  moment.  He 
was  pressing  a  towel  to  his  face,  and  Martin  thought 
he  looked  second-rate ;  he  smelt  second-rate  now  Stein- 
bach  had  been  in  the  room,  and  Martin  wondered  why 
he  had  remained  to  hear  any  of  his  opinions  about  any- 
thing. It  is  rather  difficult  not  to  appear  at  a  dis- 
advantage in  clothes  semi-classical  and  semi-modern, 
with  a  towel  round  one's  neck  and  a  sore  cheek,  es- 
pecially when  one  is  very  tired.  Martin  made  no  al- 
lowances. Von  der  Gorst  thought,  "  I  shall  not  see 
much  of  this  young  man  any  more,"  but  added  aloud, 
"  We  are  both  tired."  It  is  easy  to  come  to  the  end 
of  a  friendship  when  tired,  but  he  hoped,  like  every- 
body else,  that  when  they  were  themselves  again  every- 
thing would  be  as  before. 

Martin  watched  him  uneasily  for  a  few  minutes 
and  longed  to  go  away.    Soon  he  said,  "  I  must  go." 

"You  have  plenty  of  time,"  said  von  der  Gorst, 
rather  sourly. 

"  Not  too  much,"  said  Martin ;  "  good  night." 

"  Good  night,"  growled  von  der  Gorst.  He  had  a 
grievance.    Martin  had  neither  thanked  him  nor  com- 


LEIPSIC  97 

plimented  him.  With  this  grievance  he  consoled  him- 
self, and  pretended  that  he  had  ceased  to  think  him- 
self a  friend  of  Martin's,  and  said  so  the  next  day  to 
some  of  his  acquaintances. 

Martin  met  Steinbach  at  the  church.  They  were 
both  early,  but  Steinbach  was  there  first. 

**  I  am  afraid  I  am  late,"  said  Martin ;  but  Stein- 
bach replied,  "  No,  no,  I  am  early."  It  was  a  light 
night.  The  full  summer  moon  shone  down  into  the 
Market  Place,  and  in  the  light  darkness  the  roofs  of 
the  houses  showed  reddish,  and  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
greenish,  and  the  brown  woodwork  of  the  windows 
and  doors  brownish,  like  a  photograph  faintly  washed 
with  pure  color.  There  were  clouds  of  thin,  filmy 
white  in  a  sky  that  was  almost  blue,  and  through  and 
between  the  clouds  a  few  pale  sulphurous  stars  showed. 
The  two  men  walked  out  of  the  indigo  shadow  of  the 
church  across  the  light  gray  open  space,  around  which 
stood  white  and  gray  and  dark-colored  houses.  An 
open  cab  rattled  across  the  square,  making  a  stony 
noise.  One  of  the  men  said  something  to  the  other, 
then  the  cab  stopped  and  they  both  got  in  it.  The 
cab  turned  round  and  the  unwilling  horse  was  again 
driven  away  from  his  stable.  He  reared  up  his  head 
at  the  end  of  his  long,  straight  neck,  and,  pulling  the 
cab  by  his  shoulders,  clattered  with  his  heavy  hoofs 
and  sloping  haunches  out  of  the  Market  Place  towards 
the  New  Bridge.    He  could  hear  everything,  partly  be- 


98  MARTIN  SCHULER 

cause  of  the  still  night  and  partly  because  he  was  tired. 
He  stretched  back  his  ears  to  listen,  because  when  he 
listened  he  forgot  he  was  pulling  a  cab.  He  could 
hear  the  rattle  of  the  cab  wheels  and  the  unoiled  sigh 
of  the  springs,  and  the  driver's  sleepy,  "  Tchk,  tchk," 
and  the  voices  of  the  two  men  in  the  cab  talking  about 
plays  and  theaters.  Above  these  sounds  he  heard  a 
buzzing  noise  in  his  head,  a  buzz  in  which  the  noises 
of  the  trams  and  shouts  and  footsteps  and  wheels  of 
the  past  day  were  all  combined,  and  again  above  that 
he  could  hear  the  river  moving — the  sound  of  water. 
Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  he  stretched  his  neck 
and  kept  his  head  up. 

"This  is  nineteen-three,'*  said  Steinbach,  in  the 
middle  of  the  bridge;  "let  us  produce  something  at 
Leipsic  in  nineteen- four." 

"Us?"  said  Martin. 

Steinbach  looked  at  the  moonlight  on  the  water,  and 
let  it  sink  into  his  mind.  It  was  sinking  into  Martin's 
soul,  as  all  such  things  did  without  him  making  any 
effort.  Steinbach  answered  as  he  looked  at  the  water, 
"  I  can  write  better  stuff  than  those  Croesus  words." 
He  went  on,  "  We  can  live  in  Leipsic.  My  father  will 
back  Croesus  for  you  for  a  week  at  one  of  the  theaters." 

"  It  is  very  kind,"  said  Martin  dreamily. 

"  Not  at  alL"  Steinbach's  face  beamed  in  a  radiant 
smile,  which  immediately  woke  Martin  out  of  his  short 


LEIPSIC  99 

dreaming  fit,  "  My  father  has  nothing  to  do  with  his 
money.  What  a  queer  little  place  this  is,"  he  said  as 
they  turned  over  the  bridge  into  the  new  part  of  the 
town. 

"A  queer  little  place/*  assented  Martin. 

"  Why  do  you  live  here  ?  " 

*'  Force  of  habit,'*  said  Martin. 

"  You  do  not  look  a  native." 

"  I  was  born  and  bred  here." 

"  Aha,"  said  Steinbach,  as  other  people  say  "  Yes," 
"  and  bedazzled." 

"  I  was  more  bedazzled  in  Paris,"  Martin  laughed. 

"  Were  you  bom  in  the  house  we  are  going  to  ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Martin,  "down  near  the  Markt 
Platz." 

"Of  the  people — quite  so,"  said  Steinbach;  "the 
upper  classes  are  too  well  fed  to  breed  a  genius.  They 
say  over-feeding  and  idleness  produces  women  and 
inferior  men.    I  am  the  product  of  luxury." 

"When  I  was  in  Paris,"  said  Martin,  "everybody 
was  very  effeminate." 

"Women  are  the  children  of  civilization,"  said 
Steinbach.  "  All  the  primitive,  horrid,  grand  states 
of  being,  such  as  war  and  savagery,  produce  men,  and 
silly  women."  He  laughed  then,  and  said,  "  You  did 
not  become  effeminate  in  Paris  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Martin;  "but  it  civilized  me." 

Steinbach  did  not  expect  him  to  be  capable  of  mak- 


100  MARTIN  SCHULER 

ing  a  confession  about  himself.  What  he  said  was 
perfectly  true.  Paris  had  had  an  immense  influence 
over  him.  He  was  quite  incapable  at  present  of  mid- 
night rambles  or  ecstasies  under  the  moon.  He  had 
forgotten  the  unchained  feeling  of  his  twenty-first 
year.  His  ability  to  call  the  past  the  past  made  him 
appear  to  be  a  new  kind  of  man  to  those  who  knew  him 
intimately.  He  had  given  up  worshiping  nature  with 
the  passionate  abandonment  of  his  youth,  and  his 
vitality,  stimulated  enormously  by  the  new  things  of 
Paris,  was  expended  upon  technical  rather  than  pas- 
sionate art,  and  amongst  drawing-rooms  and  clubs 
rather  than  amongst  hills  and  valleys.  His  work 
gained  in  suavity  and  brilliance,  but  it  was  not  pro- 
found. "  The  Poverty  of  Croesus,"  the  outcome  of  his 
Parisian  year,  had  bouquet  rather  than  depth,  and 
was  more  original  than  inspired. 

They  arrived  at  Martin's  door.  The  horse  no  sooner 
heard  the  chink  of  money  than  he  strode  round  and 
was  off  in  a  hurry  to  his  stable.  He  hoped  there 
would  be  no  one  in  that  fateful  Markt  Platz.  Late 
diners-out  always  hailed  his  cab  in  that  wretched 
place. 

Martin  opened  the  door  with  a  key  and  they  went  in. 

"I  wait  on  myself  at  this  time  of  the  night,"  he 
said,  taking  his  companion  into  a  room  where  an  elab- 
orate cold  supper  was  put  in  easy  reach  of  a  chair 
drawn  up  to  the  table.    Steinbach  thought  of  an  illus- 


LEIPSIC  loi 

tration  in  a  romantic  tale  which  he  liked  when  a  child, 
of  a  young  musician  supping  alone  at  a  table  covered 
with  a  lace-edged  cloth  and  spread  with  delicious 
viands.  Martin  lit  the  candelabra  and  turned  off  the 
electric  light. 

Steinbach  told  Martin  of  the  illustration,  who  did 
not  know  it,  never  having  cared  much  for  books. 

They  ate  a  great  deal,  and  drank  a  great  deal  of 
white  wine,  and  Martin  at  last  said,  "What  is  your 
opinion  of  my  opera?" 

"  I  thought,"  answered  Steinbach,  looking  down 
into  his  glass,  from  which  he  extracted  a  little  bit  of 
cork  with  his  little  finger,  "  that  your  music  was  very 
good  and  original.  I  should  like  to  have  a  share  in 
your  fate.  I  listened  very  carefully  to  your  music 
because  I  intended  you  to  ask  me  my  opinion.  You 
should  never  conduct  your  own  things.  You  see  what 
they  are  meant  to  represent  rather  than  what  they  do 
represent.  Composers  usually  misinterpret  their  own 
works  of  art.  An  outsider  would  have  marked  those 
interesting  subtleties  which  doubtless  you  know 
nothing  about.  There  was  an  hiatus  or  two  where 
you  found  yourself  over-interpreting.  Do  you  object 
to  my  criticism  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Martin ;  "  go  on." 

Steinbach  smiled  broadly.  "  IVe  nothing  more  to 
say.  If  you  will  live  with  me  in  Leipsic  I  shall  be 
delighted.    I  will  marry  you  to  some  good  woman." 


102  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  No,"  said  Martin;  "  I  will  not  marry  yet." 

"A  loose  character,  are  you?"  grinned  Steinbach. 

"  Not  more  so  than  others,"  said  Martin. 

"  I  do  not  approve  of  moral  looseness  nor  atheism," 
said  Steinbach  in  a  slow,  humorous  voice. 

"  You  sound  tolerant,"  Martin  answered  smiling. 

"  Quite  so,"  answered  Steinbach,  "  but  I  am  not." 
He  smiled  again.  "  I  am  a  prig  but  not  a  prude."  It 
was  impossible  to  tell  if  he  meant  what  he  said,  or 
whether  he  were  the  loosest  man  on  earth.  "  I  want 
to  give  you  an  impression  of  myself.  See?  That  is 
done." 

Martin  had  received  no  impression  whatever  of 
Steinbach.  He  seemed  to  assume  a  kind  of  green  vir- 
tue. He  seemed  very  easy.  He  made  statements 
about  their  partnership  as  if  that  were  easy,  and  about 
producing  Croesus  in  Leipsic  for  a  week  as  if  that 
were  easy. 

"  Show  me  your  works  of  art,  Schiiler,"  he  said 
after  a  pause,  and  Martin  showed  him  all  his  better 
and  more  recent  productions,  and  played,  after  a 
fashion,  all  that  he  thought  would  redound  to  his 
credit.  Steinbach  murmured,  "  Yes !  Good !  Quite 
so !  Gk)  on ! "  at  intervals,  and  listened  with  calcula- 
ting, critical  ears,  but  gave  no  opinion  on  any  partic- 
ular fragment.  At  last  he  said  he  must  go,  and  with- 
out any  further  talk  departed.  When  he  had  gone 
Martin  felt  pleased,  praised,  and  happy.     He  smiled 


LEIPSIC  103 

at  himself  in  the  glass  before  he  went  to  bed;  for  he 
often  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass  when  he  lived  alone 
for  companionship.  After  that  he  got  into  bed  and 
fell  asleep  remembering  non-existent  beauties  of  his 
Croesus. 


CHAPTER  X 

STEINBACH  came  round  very  early  the  next 
morning,  before  breakfast  even.  Martin  was 
still  in  bed,  but  when  he  heard  his  unmistakable, 
pleasant  voice  arguing  with  the  servant,  he  shouted 
to  him  to  come  up.  Steinbach  stood  in  the  doorway 
opposite  the  bed,  with  a  grin  on  his  cheery  face. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said,  making  an  idiotic  bow 
with  his  head  and  neck  only.  He  looked  as  if  he  wore 
a  buckram  waistcoat  to  keep  his  fatness  within  bounds. 
He  was  very  stiff  in  the  body. 

"  I  came  to  say — er — thanks."  He  interrupted  him- 
self to  come  into  the  room  and  sit  squarely  on  the  bed. 
"  I  came  to  say,"  he  went  on,  "  what  day,  when,  now, 
soon,  or  never,  when  shall  we  go  to  Leipsic?  " 

"  Any  time  will  do  for  me,"  said  Martin. 

"  Very  well,  then,  Friday  of  next  week.  Very  good. 
You  will  come  and  live  with  me  in  Leipsic  next  Fri- 
day." 

Martin  laughed.  "  God !  you  do  amuse  me !  You 
don*t  seem  to  think  about  anything  before  you 
do  it." 

"Don't  I?  It  is  all  luck  anyway,  whatever  hap- 
pens; why  spend  too  long  thinking?    Perhaps  I  have 

104 


LEIPSIC  105 

thought  of  this  for  weeks.  Will  this  logic  please  you? 
I  like  your  music,  I  take  a  fancy  to  you,  I  want  to 
launch  you.  Why  not  adopt  you?  See?  If  you  have 
no  objection,  it  is  all  serene." 

"You  amuse  me,"  said  Martin. 

"  There  you  get  amusement :  amusement  is  pleasure, 
pleasure  is  the  aim  of  life.  What  more  can  a  man 
want?  My  name  is  Bernard  Christian  Steinbach,  at 
your  service."  He  smiled  all  the  while,  and  turned 
his  smile  on  Martin  from  time  to  time  like  a  search- 
light. 

"  ril  get  up  if  you  will  stay  to  breakfast,"  said 
Martin.  "  I  feel  too  idle  to  dress  this  morning." 

"  Here  is  your  vest,"  said  Steinbach,  leaning  over 
from  where  he  sat  and  picking  up  an  object  off  the 
floor.  "  As  a  commencement  of  friendship  I  will 
valet  you." 

Martin  laughed  and  put  his  arms  behind  his  head, 
but  did  not  attempt  to  get  up.  "  You  do  amuse  me," 
he  said  again. 

"  Leipsic  is  a  nice  place,"  said  Steinbach.  "  I  have 
a  lot  of  friends." 

"Your  father  is  rich?" 

"Oh,  yes,  quite  well  off.  We  have  three  houses. 
I  will  get  the  little  town  house." 

"  The  prospects  you  hold  out  excite  me,"  said  Mar- 
tin, sitting  up. 

"I    am    excited    myself,"    Steinbach    answered. 


166  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  Directly  I  saw  you  I  was  fascinated.  I  am  clever 
to  detect  your  genius." 

Martin's  excitement  reached  a  high  enough  pitch 
to  get  him  out  of  bed.  He  stood  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  in  his  pajamas  and  stretched. 

"  You  have  a  good  figure,"  said  Steinbach ;  "  I  am 
disgustingly  fat.  You  are  handsome  in  a  way.  Did 
you  ever  see  any  one  as  ugly  as  I  ?  " 

Martin  did  not  reply,  but  took  a  tin  case  of  ciga- 
rettes from  among  the  jumble  of  rubbish  on  the  table. 
He  offered  them  to  Steinbach. 

"  Have  a  cigarette." 

"  It  is  these  horrible  specs,"  said  Steinbach,  taking 
one.  "  I  don't  put  my  lights  under  bushels,  do  I  ?  " 
He  stopped  talking  to  light  his  cigarette,  and  as  he 
lit  it  his  hand  trembled  a  little. 

*'  You  have  a  shaky  hand,"  said  Martin. 

"  Quite  so,"  he  answered,  "  emotional  excitement 
and  no  breakfast." 

Martin  struggled  into  his  shirt  and  emerged  rather 
embarrassed. 

"If  you  get  a  dislike  to  me  any  time,"  his  patron 
continued  from  the  bed,  "walk  out  of  my  house. 
Neither  you  nor  I  are  to  have  any  debts  to  one  another. 
It  is  always  wise  to  start  with  an  understanding." 

"  Yes,"  said  Martin,  "  it  is  always  desirable  to  be 
definite."  He  was  feeling  that  he  did  not  care  for 
Steinbach  very  much  at  that  moment  . 


LEIPSIC  107 

"  You  sound  curt,"  said  Steinbach  in  a  gentle  voice 
as  he  got  off  the  bed.  "  I  do  not  think  I  will  stay  to 
breakfast  after  all."  Then  he  almost  simpered,  "  Nine 
a.m.  is  not  conducive  to  emotional  crises.    Good-by." 

"  Good-by."    Martin  opened  the  bedroom  door. 

"  May  I  come  this  evening  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Martin,  as  Steinbach  passed 
through.  "I  shall  be  delighted;"  but  he  was  think- 
ing, "  I  can  still  refuse !  I  can  still  refuse !  The  way 
of  success  is  up  strange  ladders." 

For  financial  reasons  alone  Martin  decided  to  ac- 
cept Steinbach's  proposal,  and  when  he  arrived  that 
night  and  walked  lovingly  into  the  lamp-lit  room, 
Martin  said  solemnly : 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  your  proposal.  I  wish 
to  thank  you  and  to  say  how  much  I  appreciate 
your  interest  in  me.  I  accept  your  offer  with 
gratitude." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Steinbach.  "  It  is  a  queer  world." 
He  sat  down  opposite  Martin  in  an  easy  chair.  Like 
him  he  wore  dress  clothes,  as  if  on  a  formal  occasion. 
"We  shall  be  sitting  together  like  this  in  Leipsic,  in 
neither  your  house  nor  mine,  drinking  neither  your 
nor  my  wine." 

Martin  laughed.  "  It  is  impossible  to  be  solemn 
with  you." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Steinbach;  "  we  shall  become  fami- 


io8  MARTIN  SCHULER 

liar,  we  shall  be  rude  and  quarrel  and  get  on  each 
other's  nerves." 

"  Help  yourself  to  the  cigars  and  wine,'*  said  Mar- 
tin, pushing  a  box  and  a  glass  across  the  little  table. 
The  room  was  warm  and  pleasant,  the  lamp  cast  a 
comfortable  light,  the  wineglasses  and  the  bottles 
on  the  table  sparkled  like  jewels.  Smoke  accumulated 
in  the  top  of  the  room,  and  red  shadows  of  it  fell  on 
the  faces  and  hands  of  the  two  men.  Beyond  the 
circle  of  light  cast  by  the  lamp  was  a  deep  brown 
gloom.  The  walls  of  the  room  sank  back  into  the 
darkness,  and  the  floor  fell  away  into  deep  pits  at  the 
sides;  the  two  men  sat  like  giants  on  the  hump  of  the 
world  with  their  heads  near  the  sun  and  their  shoul- 
ders in  the  clouds.  Bright  corners  of  frames  and  orna- 
ments on  the  walls  gleamed  like  distant  stars.  What 
would  come  to  them  out  of  the  abyss?  When  Stein- 
bach  received  the  burden  of  Martin  upon  his  mind 
he  felt  the  floor  revolve  quickly  under  his  feet,  and 
his  chair  move  half  a  pace ;  a  lump  came  into  his  throat 
and  he  felt  happy.    After  a  silence  he  said : 

**  I  have  pushed  my  way  into  your  life.  I  have 
been  meditating  it  for  several  weeks.  This  was  a 
good  opportunity." 

"  You  seem  to  run  on  wheels,"  said  Martin,  "  and 
to  glide  through  brick  and  mortar." 

"  I  am  quite  concrete.    Feel  my  hand." 

Martin    felt   his    extended    hand,    and    Steinbach 


LEIPSIC  109 

grasped  Martinis  with  it.  "Do  I  feel  genuine?"  he 
said,  looking  at  Martin  seriously,  who  threw  off  his 
embarrassment  with  an  effort. 

"  Yes/'  he  said,  "  I  believe  you  are." 

"You  don't  like  me." 

"  How  can  I  tell?  "    Martin  evaded  his  assertion. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  murmured  Steinbach. 

With  an  effort  Martin  looked  him  in  the  eyes. 

"  I  believe  you  are  genuine,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you."  Steinbach  dropped  his  hand.  "  Love 
is  a  peculiar  thing.  All  attractions  are  peculiar."  He 
smiled.    "  Aren't  they  ?  " 

"Yes.  That  is  easily  said  about  anything.  Help 
yourself  to  wine." 

Steinbach  poured  out  a  glass  and  held  it  up  to  the 
light.  "  My  father  always  looks  through  his  wine," 
he  said.  "  I  gather  nothing  from  the  performance." 
He  turned  and  held  up  his  glass  to  Martin.  "  *  There 
is  comradeship ;  may  there  be  friendship ! '  " 

Martin  answered  with  another  quotation : 

"  *  I  and  me  are  always  too  earnestly  in  conversa- 
tion; how  could  it  be  endured  if  there  were  not  a 
friend?'" 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  read  ?  "  said  Steinbach  with 
a  benign  smile  on  his  face.  He  sipped  his  Sflass,  then 
took  it  from  his  left  hand  bv  the  top  with  the  outspread 
finsfers  of  his  right  and  put  it  on  the  table,  after  which 
he  leaned  forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his 


no  MARTIN  SCHULER 

fat  hands  hanging  loosely  from  the  ends  of  his  arms. 
"  You  have  read  Nietzsche?  *'  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Martin,  "  not  Nietzsche,  only  the  first 
part  of  the  *  Superman  '  and  the  tirade  against  Wagner. 
I  like  the  first  part  of  the  *  Superman ' ;  I  can  under- 
stand it — my  God !  how  humble  you  make  me — and  I 
agree  with  his  ideas  about  women  and  about  stupidity. 
Perhaps  I  am  an  incarnation  of  the  *  Superman,'  I 
say  to  myself,  to  balance  my  humility.  I  suppose  I 
read  Wagner  because  I  think  myself  his  Elisha." 

"  I  have  been  to  Silvaplana,  have  you  ?  '* 

"  No,"  answered  Martin ;  "  I  have  been  to  France 
and  Heidelberg!"  He  laughed.  "The  world- 
shaking  genius  will  soon  have  added  Leipsic  to 
that  list." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  palmistry  ? "  said  Steinbach, 
leaning  a  little  further  forward. 

"The  ministers  of  the  dark  science  are  always 
obscure  and  uncomplimentary  to  me,"  replied  Martin 
laughing.  "  I  am  my  own  prophet.  A  woman  once 
told  me  I  was  the  most  selfish  brute  imaginable." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Steinbach,  "  what  you  thought  of 
Nietzsche  upon  Wagner." 

"  There,  I  cannot  do  so,"  said  Martin ;  *'  I  have 
forgotten  everything  in  it.  I  remember  I  thought  that 
if  Wagner  could  stir  the  passions  of  the  body  very 
deeply,  and  desired  to  do  so,  he  was  to  be  commended. 
He  probably  never  set  out  to  be  an  intellectualist.    I 


LEIPSIC  III 

am  not  sure  that  I  like  transcendental  intellectualism." 

"I  do,"  said  Steinbach.  "That  is  the  height  of 
creation ! " 

"  But  Wagner  was  a  humanitarian  and  a  spirit- 
ualist." 

"  I  should  like  to  know/*  said  Steinbach  very  slowly, 
"  whether  you  have  any  kindred  feeling  for  other 
musicians." 

"  I  do  when  I  see,  remember,  or  hear  their  music, 
particularly  when  I  hear  it." 

"  And  what  do  you  feel  ?  " 

"I  cannot  tell  you.  Perhaps  I  think  how  clever 
they  are  to  write  this  passage  thus." 

"  Do  you  weep  over  Tristan  and  Isolde  ?  " 

"  I  am  sick  of  it.  I  have  heard  it  ten  times  in  order 
to  try  and  discover  the  secret  of  its  power.  I  feel  now 
as  if  Saint  Saens  had  written  it,  but  there  is  some 
remarkable  work  in  it." 

"  Then  you  despise  Tannhauser?  " 

"  Oh,  my  God !  Oh,  my  God !  "  Martin  pretended 
to  be  horror-struck.  "  I  love  that  beautiful  piece  of 
hackneyed  melancholy  as  if  it  were  my  own  bad 
temper," 

"You  think  Wagner  was  a  humanitarian  and  a 
SDiritualist :  you  don't  think  he  was  an  artist  and  an 
economist  ?  " 

"  A  money-maker?  "  said  Martin.  "  Perhaps.  Per- 
haps we  all  are." 


112  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  I  don't  think  any  of  you  have  ideals/'  said  Stein- 
bach.    **I  don't  think  artists  have." 

"  I  have  an  ideal  of  fame,"  said  Martin.  "  Once  I 
believed  I  could  clap  nature  into  music  by  letting 
myself  go  mad  on  the  hills  and  writing  it  down  at 
home.  Wagner  can  represent  a  storm,  Debussy  the 
wind  in  the  trees.  I  can  do  better  than  that.  I  shall 
one  day  stir  that  question  in  your  minds  that  has  never 
been  answered,  and  I  will  answer  it." 

"What  is  God?" 

"  It  has  never  been  properly  put  into  words,"  said 
Martin ;  "  the  answer  can  never  be  in  words.  When 
you  hear  me  speak  in  my  fashion  you  will  know  the 
answer." 

"  That  is  what  you  call  transcendental  intellect- 
ualism." 

"I  do  not  call  it  anything,"  said  Martin.  "Oh, 
my  mind,  my  mind!  It  bursts  sometimes  for  the 
experience  it  has  not  got.  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to 
believe  my  first  opera  will  reach  the  goal.  I  am  a 
perfectionist.  I  brought  a  great  many  *  ists '  and 
'  isms  '  from  Paris.  I  can  tell  you  a  great  man  has  a 
long  way  to  go  to  be  his  greatest.  Like  Napoleon,  I 
sacrifice  humanity  to  myself.  When  my  conscience 
pricks  me  I  say,  *  Do  not  listen ;  these  peccadilloes  are 
incommensurate  with  the  necessity  of  your  greatness.'  " 

"You  will  sacrifice  me?  "  asked  Steinbach. 

"What  are  you,  after  all,  to  me?"  said  Martin, 


LEIPSIC  113 

*'  but  a  man  who  has  made  me  a  good  offer  ?  I  think 
you  are  very  kind.  I  hope  I  shall  always  behave  hon- 
orably with  you.  I  hope  there  will  be  no  necessity  for 
me  to  make  myself  the  symbol  of  ingratitude.** 

"  I  have  my  aims,"  said  Steinbach,  good-humoredly. 

"  Nobody's  aims  but  my  own  are  anything  to  me," 
said  Martin,  also  pleasantly. 

"  Perhaps  yours  are  nothing  to  me !  "  Steinbach 
reached  for  his  glass  and  drank  once  more.  "  Perhaps 
I  do  not  care  a  rap  for  anything  but  the  picture  of 
myself  twenty  years  hence  that  I  keep  here.''  He  hit 
the  front  of  his  head. 

"  *  One  ought  to  honor  the  enemy  in  one's  friend/  " 
quoted  Martin  again. 

" '  Thou  shalt  be  closest  unto  him  when  thou  with- 
standest  him,' "  said  Steinbach,  but  he  had  his  doubts 
in  his  heart. 

"  I  like  you,"  said  Martin ;  "  we  shall  be  able  to  be 
antagonists." 

"  I  did  hope  we  should  have  been  friends." 

"  My  antagonist  is  my  friend,  as  you  said  yours 
was  your  friend  just  now,"  answered  Martin. 

"  I  had  my  doubts,"  Steinbach  muttered. 

"  T  could  like  for  my  friend,"  said  Martin,  standing 
up  and  going  over  to  a  portfolio,  "  a  man  whom  I 
could  trust  with  my  bad  temper  and  my  selfishness, 
and  who  would  demand  nothing  from  me  but  the  post 
of  keeper  of  my  unpleasant  self.     A  friend  that  I 


1 141  MARTIN  SCHULER 

have  to  consider  and  cosset  I  do  not  want.  I  am 
enough  burden  to  myself  without  duplicating  it.  I 
would  be  faithful  to  that  man;  he  would  be  the  recip- 
ient of  my  bad  temper  until  the  end  of  my  days.  For 
kisses  he  could  take  my  trust,  for  embraces  my  music, 
and  for  a  reward  those  good  days  when  I  chose  to  be 
to  him  my  other  self.  I  would  put  his  name  on  some 
of  my  music — on  my  masterpiece — unless  in  my  stu- 
pidity I  had  made  my  heart  captive  to  some  wretched 
woman.  Now  you  know  what  my  ideal  friend  is ;  all 
others  are  my  antagonists.  I  will  have  no  friend  that 
is  not  ideal.    I  either  like  or  hate  my  antagonists." 

Steinbach  frowned.  "You  are  very  difficult  to 
please.  Your  friend  will  have  to  be  a  woman  or  a 
toady.    No  man  could  be  your  genuine  friend." 

"  If  I  were  divine  I  would  dispense  with  women," 
said  Martin.  "  I  had  a  friend  who  told  me  the  truth. 
Women  are  necessary  to  the  procreator.  I  cannot 
become  the  father  of  a  child  nor  of  a  masterpiece  with- 
out a  woman.  The  beauty  and  the  voluptuousness  of 
women  are  necessary  to  me.  There  is  no  substitute.  I 
had  a  platonic  friend.  I  became  the  manservant  of  the 
woods  and  all  nature.  Nothing  has  inspired  me  like  the 
long  falling  hair  of  women  or  their  wretched  soft 
curving  lips  and  their  white  skin.  I  tell  you,"  he  said, 
"  I  tell  you,  this  portfolio  is  a  record  of  my  affaires 
de  cceur.  My  brain  becomes  clear  when  I  am  intoxi- 
cated.    I  drink  wine,  I  take  opium  to  try  and  urge 


LEIPSIC  115 

myself  to  splendor.  If  I  am  not  at  that  point  of  my 
revolution  where  I  am  turning  again  into  the  region 
of  love,  I  am  only  mediocre." 

"  That  is  youth,"  said  Steinbach;  "  I  am  an  ancient 
young  man." 

Martin  hastened  to  seat  himself  at  the  piano.    His 
hands  trembled  and  there  was  sweat  on  his  brow.   The 
music  he  put  up  before  him  fell  down  on  his  hands. 
He  swore  and  fixed  it  up  again.     Steinbach  watched 
him  calmly.    His  oiled  hair  was  getting  out  of  order 
and  his  eyes  looked  tired.  Steinbach  felt  sorry  for  him 
He  thought,  "  Poor  chap,  he  must  suffer  from  nerves.* 
Martin  began  to  play.    He  played  several  short  pieces 
songs  and  airs.     Before  some  of  them  he  exclaimed 
"  I  did  this  in  love,"  or  merely,  "  In  love  " ;  before 
others  he  barked,  "  Not  in  love,"  "  Drink,"  "  Opium.' 
He  did  not  play  from  the  music,  he  watched  his  hands 
At  the  end  he  said : 

"Steinbach!" 

Steinbach  jumped ;  the  music  was  soothing  him  into 
far-away  thoughts. 

"You  have  noticed,  Steinbach,  what  I  say  is  per- 
fectly true.  I  am  a  genius  only  when  I  am  in  love. 
When  I  am  not,  it  is  an  intellectual  feat." 

Steinbach  could  not  truthfully  say  that  he  had 
noticed,  but  he  murmured  "  Yes." 

"  And  I  get  tired  of  one  woman,  and  they  are  so  easy 
to  get.    My  conscience!    It  is  difficult  for  a  man  to 


ii6  MARTIN  SCHULER 

have  one.  I  do  not  let  it  prick  me  about  such  little 
things.  I  am  not  the  shepherd  of  the  female  sex.  If 
they  have  sense  let  them  shepherd  themselves;  if  they 
have  no  sense  I  do  not  care,  they  are  not  worth 
care." 

"  I  know  a  woman  to  whom  I  will  introduce  you," 
said  Steinbach,  "  whom  I  respect  and  honor.  You 
ought  to  love  the  best  women.  The  best  women 
are  better  than  the  best  men." 

"  Humorist !  "  exclaimed  Martin. 

But  Steinbach  was  feeling  sentimental.  "  I  say  bet- 
ter,'* he  said  as  he  got  up — "  better,  because  to-night 
I  feel  as  though  they  were  better.  Another  night  I 
might  be  more  moderate.  Good  night,  Schuler."  He 
took  Martin's  hand  again  and  held  it  a  short  time 
whilst  he  looked  him  steadily  in  the  eyes.  Martin  felt 
foolish.  Those  blue  magnified  eyes  might  see  him 
through  and  through,  but  he  could  not  tell.  They 
might  be  shining  with  triumph  or  with  tears.  They 
might  belong  to  an  exceedingly  stupid  man,  but  they 
were  not  the  eyes  of  a  genius.  "  Here  is  undiluted 
sanity,"  said  Martin  to  himself;  "curse  it! " 

Steinbach  dropped  his  hand  and  went  out,  and  when 
he  got  out  of  the  door  Martin  shook  himself.  "  Ugh !  " 
he  exclaimed  to  himself ;  "  he  sets  himself  at  me !  "  and, 
flinging  himself  at  the  piano,  he  struck  a  note  in  the 
middle  loudly  with  his  forefinger.  He  did  not  strike 
another.     Instead  of  playing,  as  he  had  intended,  he 


LEIPSIC  117 

went  to  the  brandy  bottle  and  poured  himself  out  a 
wineglass  or  two  full,  which  he  drank  neat. 

Steinbach  stood  outside  in  the  rain  and  looked  at 
the  gray  front  of  the  house.  He  looked  up  at  the 
roof  and  down  to  the  pavement,  and  across  from  side 
to  side.  It  was  very  hot  out  in  the  rain;  there  had 
probably  been  a  thunderstorm  in  the  hills.  He  heard 
Martin  strike  one  note  and  no  more.  Although  it 
was  hot  he  turned  up  his  gray  coat  collar  and  pulled 
his  white  silk  muffler  to  his  ears.  He  could  feel  the 
rain  striking  the  top  of  his  English  bowler.  He  waited 
five  minutes  on  the  pavement,  patiently  and,  to  an  out- 
sider, stupidly.  He  was  not  stupid;  what  he  waited 
for  he  could  not  tell,  but  he  did  not  go  until  he  was 
satisfied.  Perhaps  his  body  was  waiting  for  his  mind 
to  come  out  of  the  house.  After  about  five  minutes 
he  moved  away,  and  walking  on  the  outside  edge  of 
the  pavement  he  came  to  the  bridge.  In  the  middle  he 
stopped  and  considered.  It  was  a  long  way  down  on 
his  side  of  the  wall  to  the  bottom  of  the  well.  People 
outside  might  think  him  shallow.  He  had  a  sensation 
of  depth,  probably  because  he  was  looking  over  a  high 
bridge  into  a  void,  but  the  physical  and  mental  sensa- 
tions coincided,  though  they  were  neither  of  them 
expressed  in  words. 

When  he  got  back  to  his  House  he  was  conscious  of 
feeling  better,  though  better  than  what  he  did  not 
know.    If  he  had  considered  his  thought  he  might  have 


ii8  MARTIN  SCHULER 

got  some  light  on  the  matter.  He  was  thinking,  "  I 
at  least  am  human,"  but  like  most  thoughts  it  went 
through  his  mind  without  holding  the  attention.  As  he 
took  off  his  coat  he  passed  his  hand  over  the  wet, 
heavy  material.  His  hand  was  as  wet  as  if  he  had 
dipped  it  into  water.  He  suddenly  felt  in  sympathy 
with  his  father  and  sister  and  all  his  friends.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  Martin  could  not  get  wet  and 
would  not  notice  it  if  he  did.  "They  are  all  on  my 
side,"  he  thought.    "  Thank  God !  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  January.  Hella  von  Rosenthal  sat  beside 
Martin  in  a  box  at  the  opera.  She  was  not  listen- 
ing to  the  music,  nor  was  he.  He  was  dreaming, 
as  he  always  did  when  he  heard  music,  about  some- 
thing totally  different.  Steinbach  sat  at  the  back  of 
the  box  and  watched  him.  Hella  was  pleased  to  be  at 
the  theater  with  Martin,  though  she  hardly  knew  him. 
Steinbach  had  not  succeeded  so  far  in  making  him  her 
friend.  She  was  thinking  what  thoughts  he  must  be 
having  when  he  sat  in  the  darkness  like  that  alone  with 
himself.  She  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  kiss 
him ;  she  had  only  kissed  Bernard  Christian  Steinbach 
amongst  men,  but  he  was  an  ancient  friend.  She  felt 
quite  cold  when  she  went  mentally  through  the  experi- 
ence of  kissing  Martin.  "What  hundreds  of  men 
women  kiss  in  their  imagination,**  she  said  to  herself. 
The  thought  was  quite  pure.  After  all,  kisses  can  be 
as  chaste  as  roses  and  lilies.  She  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like  to  kiss  him,  because  she  wanted  to 
know  what  he  was  like,  not  to  discover  what  she  her- 
self felt.  She  next  wondered  how  he  would  treat  a 
wife  or  a  mistress,  and  decided  that  he  would  treat  2t 
wife  badly  and  a  mistress  well  for  a  short  time  and 

"9 


120  MARTIN  SCHULER 

cruelly  later.  "  Preserve  me  from  ever  being  his 
wife,"  she  thought.  She  looked  at  Steinbach.  It 
excited  her  sense  of  humor  to  see  him  sitting  at  the 
back  of  the  box  like  the  keeper  of  a  lunatic.  She 
thought  he  had  a  bee  in  his  bonnet.  She  thought  him 
very  good  to  let  Martin  spend  his  money;  she 
thought  him  very  silly  to  try  and  chain  such  an  ele- 
mental being  to  his  will.  Martin  came  to  her  without 
a  past,  as  so  many  of  our  friends  do,  like  a  mushroom. 
All  she  knew  of  him  was  his  "  Poverty  of  Croesus," 
which  had  caused  a  considerable  sensation  amongst 
Leipsic  critics.  He  seemed  a  mature  person,  full  of 
self-command  and  ability.  She  tried  to  grasp  the  fact 
that  Steinbach  wanted  to  make  him  write  a  light  opera. 
It  seemed  to  her  incongruous;  it  seemed  as  if  her 
ancient  friend  was  making  a  mistake.  She  felt  herself 
siding  against  him.  For  years  their  indefinite  feeling 
of  friendship  had  not  experienced  anything  so  strong. 
They  had  supposed,  in  their  gentle  comradeship,  that 
one  day  they  would  marry  one  another ;  she  had  called 
him  her  little  fat  husband  in  fun  several  times.  They 
were  to  marry,  they  thought,  at  the  end  of  his  con- 
scription; and  again,  after  his  university  course,  but 
nothing  had  taken  place. 

She  wore  a  black  velvet  gown  that  evening,  and  a 
hat  with  ostrich  feathers,  and  looked  what  we  should 
now  call  old  for  twenty-six,  but  at  the  beginning  of  this 
century  people  looked  women  long  before  their  girlhood 


LEIPSIC  121 

was  properly  over.  She  was  very  good-looking*;  some 
of  her  friends  called  her  American.  She  was  like  a 
high-class  German  who  has  emigrated  to  America  and 
returned.  People  sent  her  postcards  of  young  women 
drawn  by  Dana  Gibson,  and  certainly  with  her  fine 
eyes,  her  oval  face,  and  beautiful  hair  rolled  up  a  la 
Pompadour  in  front  and  tied  into  a  large  queue  with  a 
black  ribbon  in  the  nape  of  her  neck,  she  closely  re- 
sembled their  general  outline,  but  her  mouth  with  its 
definite  curves  betrayed  her  nationality.  She  had  also 
a  beautiful  dimple  in  one  cheek,  and  when  she  smiled 
she  showed  white,  regular  teeth,  and  everybody  thought 
she  was  very  handsome. 

Martin  deigned  to  admire  her,  but  she  seemed  so 
cold  and  statuesque  that  he  made  no  effort  to  approach 
her.  He  lolled  back  behind  the  ridiculous  side  curtains 
of  the  box,  with  their  ridiculous  fringes  of  little  balls, 
and  surveyed  Steinbach  and  Hella.  She  put  up  her  fan 
and  talked  to  Bernard  behind  it.  She  referred  to  a 
joke  of  his  about  not  being  able  to  manage  Martin 
unless  he  were  going  through  a  crisis  or  an  emotion. 
Music  was  supposed  to  produce  the  former. 

"  A  crisis  or  an  emotion  ? ''  she  whispered,  looking 
behind  her  fan  towards  Martin. 

"  ril  hire  a  beastly  piano-player  and  work  my  feet 
off,"  answered  Steinbach.  "Why  don*t  you  sing  to 
him?" 

"  I  ?    He  has  not  asked  me." 


122  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  Ask  him." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Hella;  "why  should  we 
squeeze  operas  out  of  the  poor  young  man  ?  " 

"  I  want  him,  don't  you  understand,  to  be  famous. 
I  do  not  believe  he  has  grand  opera  in  him.  He  has 
the  other  sort.  Why,  he  has  half  written  one.  I  can- 
not make  him  finish  it." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  him?  "  said  Hella. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  fascinated ;  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
am  fascinated  to  see  what  he  can  be  made  to  do." 

'*  I  think  you  are  horrible." 

"  Who  is  horrible  ?  "  said  Martin,  who  had  been 
trying  to  catch  the  conversation.    He  leaned  forward. 

"  Bernard  is,"  said  Hella. 

"Why?" 

Hella  laughed  softly.  "  Oh,  oh,"  she  said,  "  I  simply 
cannot  tell  you!  That  is  forbidden,  to  betray  a 
friend." 

Martin  lolled  back  again  behind  the  curtain  and 
screwed  up  his  eyes. 

"  Fraulein  von  Rosenthal,"  he  said,  "  all  I  can  see 
of  you  is  an  obscure  whiteness  with  diamond  flashes 
upon  it,  all  I  can  see  of  Bernard  is  a  shirt  front 
and  a  pair  of  rimless  pince-nez,  and  those  spectral 
fragments  I  tell  myself  are  my  friends,  and  yet 
against  me." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Steinbach,  from  the  back  of  the 
box,  and  smiled. 


LEIPSIC  123 

"  I  see  teeth  now — the  teeth  of  the  devourer." 

Hella  laughed.  "You  are  absurd,  Herr  von 
Schiller." 

"  I  am  serious.  Perhaps  you  two  specters  can 
enlighten  me.  In  this  darkness  I  can  speak  frankly. 
Tell  me,  oracles,  what  does  my  lord  and  master  select 
that  I  shall  do  for  him  ?  Why  am  I  in  Leipsic,  what  is 
the  price  of  my  liberty  ?  Shade  of  man  and  woman, 
are  ye  an  expression  of  the  devil?  Why  tempt  ye  me? 
It  is  all  too  easy  for  me  to  follow.  I  wish  to  excel 
everything  and  all,  you  wish  me  to  be  easily  brilliant, 
I  have  sold  my  soul  to  a  rich  man.  I  try  to  evade  his 
persuasiveness ;  he  brings  me  a  woman  to  tempt  me.  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  clever  in  your  way.  Give  me  a 
chance."    He  spoke  in  a  low,  quiet  voice. 

Steinbach  leaned  towards  him  so  that  he  could  have 
touched  him  with  his  hand  and  said  also : 

"  Give  me  a  chance." 

"The  chances  are  all  yours,"  said  Martin.  He 
turned  to  Hella.  "  Will  you  give  me  a  chance?  Your 
future  husband  is  obdurate." 

"  I  dare  not  interfere,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  and 
looked  the  other  way. 

Martin  looked  at  Steinbach. 

"  If  I  could  only  make  out  what  destiny  you  have 
for  me,"  he  said. 

"None,  none,"  said  Steinbach.  "I  want  you  to 
see  what  ability  you  have.    I  want  you  to  see  yourself. 


124  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Give  me  my  chance;  you  are  welcome. to  discard  me 
afterwards,  but  you  will  not  discard  me.  I  have  stud- 
ied you  for  almost  a  year ;  I  know  your  abilities  better 
than  you  imagine,  also  your  temperament.  Finish  me 
the  *  Coquettes.*  You  will  thank  me  when  you  get 
the  net  profits.*' 

"  This  is  an  odd  moment  to  talk  business." 

"  You  are  an  odd  man.  Half  the  business  of  the 
world  is  done  in  odd  moments." 

The  lights  went  up  for  the  interval  and  Steinbach 
rose.  His  time  was  up  for  that  day,  probably  for  a 
long  period ;  you  could  not  badger  a  man  like  Martin. 
He  managed  to  whisper  to  Hella  as  he  went  out,  "  Ask 
him  to  supper  with  us  at  your  house  and  sing  to  him — 
sing  to  him." 

When  he  had  gone,  Hella  started  a  conversation. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  said,  leaning  her  beautiful 
arm  along  the  edge  of  the  box  and  looking  over — 
"  don't  you  think  people  are  too  isolated  nowadays  each 
within  himself?  " 

"  I  certainly  feel  isolated,"  said  Martin. 

"  Look  over  the  edge  of  the  box,"  she  went  on,  "  at 
that  pink  creature  and  that  blue  creature  and  all  the 
other  creatures.  Do  they  look  to  have  one  single  sym- 
pathy?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Martin;  "  I  cannot  imagine 
myself  partitioned  amongst  many." 

"  No,"  said  Hella,  "  we  shall  cast  lots  for  you." 


LEIPSIC  125 

"That  will  be  very  charming;  you  will  tell  me  who 
wins?" 

*'  Oh,  we  shall  not  tell  you!  But  the  stakes  will  be 
enormous.'* 

"What  sort  of  stakes?" 

Hella  smiled  sweetly  with  her  eyes  and  mouth  at 
him.  "  Oh,  I  do  not  know !  "  she  said ;  "  piano-players, 
reputations,  peace  of  mind,  self-esteem,  and  all  sorts 
of  things.  You  see  you  are  something  to  have  and  to 
hold." 

"  You  are  flattering  me." 

"Will  you  come  to  supper  with  us?"  said  Hella 
suddenly. 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Martin;  but  he  nearly 
yawned. 

As  they  left  the  opera-house,  Hella  said  to  Stein- 
bach,  "  He  is  coming.  I  am  doing  this  to  amuse  my- 
self, but  how  it  will  amuse  me  I  cannot  see."  And  then 
she  laughed.    "  I  am  not  in  your  power  too,  am  I  ?  " 

Steinbach  smiled.  "Just  so!  You  are  part  of  the 
game ! " 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  shook  her  head 
with  a  frown. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said ;  "  you  are  too  young  to  have  a 
sensible  woman  in  your  power.  I  will  do  this  to  oblige 
you.  I  do  not  want  a  midnight  name.  You  must 
remember  I  live  alone." 


126  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  This  will  not  make  you  a  cocotte/'  said  Steinbach. 
He  smiled  again.  "  Any  one  can  have  supper  with  a 
man  this  twentieth  century." 

"  I  look  upon  you  as  my  protector/'  said  Hella,  jok- 
ing. "  How  you  throw  away  my  reputation !  When 
a  man  wants  anything  every  sacrifice  must  be 
made!" 

Steinbach  frowned.  "  If  I  could  not  trust  him  with 
a  sane  woman,"  he  said,  "  would  I  send  him  to  you?  " 

"  It  will  not  be  a  success,"  said  Hella ;  "  bring  him 
on  Wednesday." 

Martin  had  gone  to  look  for  a  taxicab. 

"  What  a  long  time  that  man  is  with  the  cab,"  she 
went  on.  "  Don't  bring  him  to-night ;  say  I  have  a 
headache.  Really,  dearest  friend,  I  only  want  myself 
and  you,  if  you  will  come." 

"  Oh,  darling  Hella !  "  Steinbach  answered,  "  you 
ought  not  to  fail  your  old  friend." 

"  I  wish  we  were  married,"  said  Hella  with  a  sigh. 

"  We  will  be  when  the  *  Coquettes  '  is  produced." 

*'  I  believe  you  have  somebody  else  in  your  eye." 

"  No,  I  have  nobody  else  in  my  eye.  Here's 
Schuler." 

"  You  look  like  husband  and  wife  from  the  street." 
said  Martin  as  he  came  up. 

They  laughed. 

"  I  have  known  this  creature  from  childhood,"  said 
Hella  affectionately. 


LEIPSIC  127 

"And  I  this  creature,"  said  Steinbach,  taking  her 
hand. 

"Leave  me  alone  and  get  married,"  said  Martin 
cheerfully. 

They  went  down  the  steps  and  got  into  the  cab. 
Hella  got  in  first,  Martin  second,  and  Steinbach,  who 
held  the  door,  made  a  feint,  cried,  "  All  right "  to  the 
driver,  and  was  left  standing  on  the  pavement  as  the 
taxi  buzzed  away. 

"  Hullo !  "  said  Martin,  leaning  out  of  the  window, 
"  where  is  he  going?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Hella. 

"  I  am  trapped,"  Martin  ejaculated,  as  he  sank  back 
on  the  seat. 

"  We  are  trapped,"  said  she. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  escape  that  man,"  said  Martin, 
half  seriously.     "  One  day  I  shall  shoot  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hella,  "  he  has  a  curious  capacity  for 
making  people  do  what  he  wants." 

Martin  was  talking  to  Hella  and  eating  sandwiches. 

"  Since  I  came  to  Leipsic,"  he  said,  "  I  have  changed. 
Paris  made  me  stop  being  a  foolish  youth,  but  Leipsic ! 
Oh,  my  God !  I  have  moods  here.  I  find  that  my  temper 
is  bad  and  I  become  depressed,  most  terribly  depressed. 
T  have  long  periods  when  I  fail  to  know  myself.  I 
fail  to  recognize  my  actions.  Before,  there  never  ap- 
peared to  be  more  than  one  way.    And  how  do  I  now 


128  MARTIN  SCHULER 

decide?  It  is  all  luck;  whichever  I  like  best  at  the 
moment  I  do.  I  am  insecure.  I  wander.  There  is 
nothing  to  prevent  me  from  doing  any  mad  thing.  I 
step.  I  take  another  step,  but  whether  north  or  south 
I  cannot  tell." 

"  It  is  change  of  place,"  said  Hella.  She  was  seated 
on  a  sofa  before  an  open  fire.  He  was  standing  beside 
the  mantelpiece,  sticking  his  first  finger  into  the  crev- 
ices of  an  elaborate  china  group.    He  went  on : 

'*  I  was  so  sure  when  I  was  young.  Without  think- 
ing, a  few  years  ago,  I  seduced  a  respectable  girl." 

Hella's  eyes  intensified. 

"  I  stole  a  manuscript  from  under  the  dead  body  of 
a  man — a  man  called  Werner." 

"Yes,"  said  Hella;  "the  'Ways  of  Water'  fel- 
low?" 

"I  thought  well  of  that  man,"  continued  Martin; 
"  he  was  curious — a  dream,  not  real.  It  was  a  queer 
life  in  those  days !  He  was  my  very  good  friend.  How 
dim  the  past  is  1  I  remember  clearly,  though,  some  of 
his  unpalatable  remarks  to  me.  He  did  not  praise  me. 
I  remember  how  happy  I  was  to  receive  my  patrimony. 
It  wiped  away  any  sorrow  I  had  for  my  father.  I  long 
to  be  at  home  now.  My  sister  Bertha  was  charming : 
now  she  is  a  house-frau.  Of  course  they  were  not 
your  kind  of  folk;  we  are  quite  common  people.  It  is 
all  vanished  away  like  steam.  I  can  never  recall  to 
you,  except  in  music,  the  charm  of  those  past  days! 


LEIPSIC  139 

Have  you  been  to  Heidelberg?  The  beautiful  woods 
and  rivers !  Surely,  I  think  to  myself  as  I  recollect 
them,  Paris  and  Helen  dwelt  here !  " 

"  I  have  had  no  home  for  three  years,"  said  Hella. 
"I  am  independent.  I  live  alone.  I  am  sorry  you 
are  unhappy." 

"I  am  not  exactly  unhappy,"  said  Martin,  sitting 
down  with  a  sigh.  He  adjusted  the  crease  in  his 
trousers,  and  then  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Bernard  told  me  to  sing  to  you,"  said  Hella. 

"  Damn  Bernard !  "  he  cried,  suddenly  crossing  his 
legs  and  folding  his  arms  across  his  breast.  "You 
are  the  only  human  being  I  have  met  for  weeks." 

*'  Are  we  human  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  point,"  cried  Martin  violently,  chang- 
ing his  position  again ;  "  who  is  human  ?  what  is  real  ? 
what  is  false  ?  what  are  dreams  ?  " 

"  I  am  twenty-six,"  said  Hella,  without  any  reason 
but  an  intricate  chain  of  thoughts. 

*T   am  nearly  twenty-five,"  answered  Martin. 

"  Bernard  and  I  have  been  friends,"  she  said,  "  for 
years.  He  is  so  rational  and  gentle.  He  is  so  sane 
in  his  judgments,  so  human." 

"  I  cannot  get  familiar  or  at  all  at  ease  with  him,*' 
said  Martin,  standing  up  again.  "  I  am  so  pleased  I 
have  met  you ;  I  have  a  friend  in  Leipsic !  Ah !  Leipsic, 
now  thou  art  more  to  me  than  a  mere  pile  of  bricks." 

"  Please  come  and  see  me  whenever  you  like,"  said 


130  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Hella;  "  if  you  like  me  to-morrow,  if  I  am  human." 

"  I  have  never  met  so  clever  a  woman  " — Martin 
bowed — "  one  so  human  and — may  I  say  it  ? — so  much 
my  equal/' 

"  Oh ! "  said  Hella,  laughing,  "  I  can  say  the  same 
of  you.    We  are  two  genuine  and  private  beings." 

"  Yes,"  said  Martin. 

"  And  you  in  public  are  a  musical  genius,  and  I 


Martin  interrupted — "  A  very  beautiful  woman." 

Hella  made  eyes  at  him. 

"  Good-night,  Martin  Schiiler;  we  shall  meet  again." 

**  Assuredly,  many,  many  times.  Allow  me  the 
privilege  of  a  friend."  He  kissed  her  hand,  and, 
looking  up  with  a  smile,  said: 

"  Hella,  next  time  perhaps  you  will  sing  one  of  my 
songs  to  me." 

Before  she  had  answered  he  had  kissed  her  cheek 
and  gone  out  of  the  door. 

A  most  delicious  feeling  came  to  her.  Happiness 
suffused  her  mind  and  body.  She  half  shut  her  eyes 
as  she  stood,  bathed  in  delight.  Suddenly  she  laughed 
girlishly,  and  went  to  the  mantelpiece  to  get  a  cigar- 
ette, but  when  she  found  herself  standing  just  where 
he  had  stood,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  said 
aloud,  "  Oh,  I  am  happy,  I  am  hap-py !  Martin,  Mar- 
tin, Martin!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

STEINBACH  gave  a  dinner  party  some  weeks 
later  to  his  young  men  friends.  His  dinner 
parties  were  intellectual  at  the  beginning  and 
often  rowdy  at  the  end.  To  this  dinner  party  came 
Griffenhousen,  who  knew  more  about  the  antiquities 
of  Greece  than  any  man  of  his  years;  Paul  Reinherz 
and  Maurice  von  Rittenberg,  historic  authors,  one 
stout  and  one  Bohemian;  an  artist,  August  Falls; 
another  artist,  Jensen  Christenholm,  a  Swede,  who 
painted  only  naked  women  as  they  were,  not  as  the 
general  public  supposes  they  are ;  the  sixth  was  a  Rus- 
sian Pole,  who  had  tabulated  human  nature  during  his- 
residence  in  a  Siberian  prison,  and  who,  like  Dos- 
toieffsky,  had  returned  much  the  worse  in  health  and 
morals,  to  write  novels.  His  novels  were  bad,  though 
startling.  He  was  always  in  debt,  always  unclean  and 
fierce  in  behavior,  though  of  a  weak  and  mild  appear- 
ance. His  teeth  were  far  apart,  his  eyes  pale  and  short- 
sighted, his  hair  lank  and  fair.  Martin  was  amused 
by  him,  probably  because  he  was  a  foreigner,  and 
certainly  he  said  amazing  things  in  an  amazing 
way. 

131 


132  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Martin  was  not  in  time  for  dinner.  Nobody  waited 
for  him.  They  seated  themselves  in  Steinbach's  mod- 
ern dining-room  round  a  round  table  covered  with 
fruit  and  wine.  The  Russian  began  to  smoke  at  once. 
He  was  supposed  to  suffer  from  epilepsy,  but  his  fits 
never  occurred  unless  he  could  gain  something  by 
them.  He  had  fits  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  rich  people 
in  order  that  they  might  put  him  to  bed  and  look  after 
him  for  several  days. 

"Where  is  Schiiler?"  said  Reinherz,  looking  at 
the  empty  chair. 

"  Chez  Hella  von  Rosenthal,"  said  Steinbach. 

Somebody  made  an  indecent  and  obvious  remark. 

"  He  is  still  a  rose  in  the  bud,"  said  August  Falls, 
the  artist. 

"  We  expected  more  than  we  have  got,"  sneered 
Christenholm,  the  other  artist.  "  The  life  of  music 
is  short.  Music  is  a  spasmodic  art.  We  are  all  fools 
if  we  expect  any  more  musicians  for  a  thousand 
years." 

"  Oh,  pooh !  "  cried  Rittenberg  as  he  swallowed  his 
horS'd^ceuvres  noisily,  "  don't  you  tell  me  that.  It  is 
art  that  is  on  the  wane." 

Knives  and  forks  clattered  and  glasses  clinked. 
Wine  was  poured  out  of  bottles ;  everything  seemed  to 
be  in  shimmering  movement  like  sunlit  water. 

"  Steinbach,  you  got  a  bad  egg  when  you  went  to 
Heidelberg,"  said  somebody. 


LEIPSIC  133 

Steinbach  was  silent.  He  did  not  like  being  laughed 
at. 

The  Russian  spoke.  "What  is  everybody  saying? 
My  premonitions  are  wrong,  perhaps.'* 

"  What  premoniti.Tins  ?  "  everybody  cried. 

"That  I  shall  have  a  recurrence  of  my  illness  to- 
night." 

"  Oh,  pooh !  "  cried  Rittenberg,  "  we  shall  souse  you 
in  the  bath  if  you  do.'' 

The  noise  grew,  the  plate  clattered,  voices  hummed, 
buzzed,  and  shouted.  Griffenhousen  ate  little,  Stein- 
bach nothing,  the  others  a  great  deal.  Griffenhousen 
whispered  to  Steinbach: 

"  You  have  lost  Schuler." 

"  Perhaps,"  he  answered  stiffly. 

"  I  suppose  von  Rosenthal  is  his  mistress." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Steinbach  stiffly  again. 

"  People  talk  about  them.  He  kisses  her  publicly  at 
her  soirees." 

"  I  daresay." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Bernard.  What  a  disappoint- 
ment. He  is  running  to  seed,  I  suppose.  We  all  ex- 
pected something  this  March." 

"  You  shall  have  it  in  October,"  Steinbach  barked. 
He  was  angry  and  hurt  and  annoyed  with  Martin  be- 
cause he  had  not  come  to  dinner.  Martin  was  hardly 
ever  to  be  seen  nowadays.  He  took  himself  off  to 
Hella's  house,  and  the  house  of  rich  men  who  flattered 


134  MARTIN  SCHULER 

him  and  treated  him  like  a  prince.  He  spent  Stein- 
bach's  money,  came  back  drunk  now  and  then,  and 
gambled,  rode,  and  danced  his  time  away. 

Then  there  was  Hella.  He,  Steinbach,  had  lost  her, 
but  she  seemed  to  have  opened  the  gates  of  life  to 
Martin.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  throw  Martin 
over,  and  kick  him  out  of  the  house,  but  Steinbach  was 
hampered  by  jealousy,  by  fear  lest  somebody  else 
should  participate  in  the  success  that  he  himself  hoped 
for;  and  by  love,  because  he  loved  Martin  and  looked 
upon  him  as  a  responsibility. 

Doors  banged.  The  door  of  the  dining-room  was 
flung  open  and  Martin,  gay  and  joyous,  came  into  the 
room. 

"  Hail,  my  friends ! "  he  cried.  "  Caesar  is  late ! " 
Then  flung  himself  into  a  vacant  chair.  The  servant 
offered  him  hors-d'oeuvres.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I'll  go 
on  with  the  rest." 

"  How  is  Hella  ?  "  somebody  said. 

Martin  frowned  slightly.  "  Hella  is  very  well,"  he 
answered.    "  Make  me  a  cigarette,  Machinkoff !  " 

Machinkoff  made  him  a  cigarette,  then  stood  up  and 
leaned  across  the  table,  with  a  slight  bow,  to  hand  it. 
"  My  friend,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  too  deep  for  his  ex- 
terior, "  the  immutable  truth  lived  at  the  bottom  of  the 
well."  Nobody  knew  what  he  meant,  but  somebody 
clapped  his  hands  and  said,  "  Well  done,  Machinkoff." 

**  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Martin. 


LEIPSIC  135 

"Next  time  you  are  with  your  girl/'  answered 
Machinkoff,  "  threaten  to  kill  her.  Threaten  to  kill  a 
woman  if  you  care  for  her  mind.  If  you  only  care 
for  her  body,  do  the  same.    It  is  amusing." 

"  The  lunatic,"  said  Falls. 

Rittenberg  thought  no  woman's  equanimity  would 
stand  a  threat  of  death.  Griffenhousen  said  everything 
was  less  dear  than  life  to  some  people,  but  that  others 
valued  many  things  more.  He  himself  did  not  care 
how  soon  he  died. 

Machinkoff  in  a  flash  produced  a  revolver,  and  fired 
it  off  in  the  air.  The  suggestion  caused  Griffenhousen 
to  think  he  had  been  taken  at  his  word,  and  he  fainted. 
A  commotion  took  place,  but  he  soon  recovered  and 
lived  for  many  years  under  the  shadow  of  that  joke. 

Soon  order  was  restored,  and  wines  and  cigars  were 
spread  in  the  smoking-room,  where  all  the  men  shortly 
repaired.  The  din  became  deafening  until  Machinkoff, 
who  hated  noise  of  any  kind  after  his  long  and  silent 
Siberian  sojourn,  suggested  cards,  and  no  sooner  were 
they  all  seated  at  cards  than  he  began  to  tell  the  for- 
tunes of  the  three  men  at  his  table  from  the  hands 
they  held.  The  fortunes  were  banal  enough,  but  as 
nobody  is  proof  against  the  black  arts,  soon  everybody 
was  clamoring  for  a  display  of  clairvoyance,  except 
Steinbach,  who  said  he  believed  in  God. 

"If  you  will,"  said  Machinkoff,  "I  must;  but  if  I 
have  a  fit,  be  it  upon  your  heads." 


136  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  Upon  our  heads  be  it,"  cried  everybody. 

Machinkoff  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  He  was 
a  little  drunk,  he  was  excited,  he  hardly  knew  what 
he  said.    "  All  have  blank  faces,"  he  said. 

"  Griffenhousen  is  a  fool  and  of  no  use  in  this 
world.  What  are  the  antiquities?  We  live  a  little  in 
the  present.  He  is  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  belong 
to  the  past." 

"  Father  of  heaven ! "  he  suddenly  cried,  looking 
at  Martin,  about  whom  he  felt  a  stupid  jealousy,  but 
whom  he  dared  not  mention  first  for  fear  of  being 
accused  of  charlatanism ;  "  Jensen  Christenholm  must 
beware  of  himself.  He  is  a  low  and  cruel  man.  Thy 
place  in  hell  is  hot,  Jensen  Christenholm  1  I  see  the 
devil  with  his  tongs  nipping  the  soft  parts  of  your 
body."  He  pretended  to  shiver  as  if  in  the  first  stages 
of  a  fit.  Christenholm  laughed,  but  he  felt  the  powers 
of  evil  run  coldly  down  his  spine.  When  denounced, 
one's  convictions  are  apt  to  give  way ;  even  in  fun  it  is 
uncomfortable  to  be  denounced.  The  Russian  took  a 
drink  of  brandy,  and,  becoming  more  drunk  and  more 
excitable,  let  out  a  flow  of  language  that  was  unintel- 
ligible even  to  himself. 

"  I  see,"  suddenly  burst  out  Machinkoff,  "  Martin 
Schuler  crucified  upon  a  high  tree.    *  Unfaithful  1  un- , 
faithful !  *  cry  the  carrion  crows  as  they  pluck  out  his 
once  luminous  eyes.     Unfaithful!  unfaithful!     His 
bonds  burst,  he  falls  from  the  tree.    He  walks.    He  is 


LEIPSIC  137 

full  of  death.  Damned  art  thou,  Martin  Schuler,  one 
way  and  another.  I  have  lived  in  prisons,  I  have 
worked  in  mines,  I  have  stenched  with  filth  and  degra- 
dation, but  I  have  not  stenched  as  Martin  Schuler 
stenches  in  his  death's  walks."  Machinkoff  wrestled 
with  his  collar  and  groaned.  "  Oh,  I  am  bewildered  at 
the  sight  of  your  degradation!  No  diamond  is  true 
that  will  not  withstand  fire.  Hark !  Hark !  He  howls 
as  the  dogs  tear  him.  As  he  walks,  dogs  tear  him.  Is 
he  alive?  Yes!  Dogs  tear  him.  Do  you  see  yourself 
as  you  prowl  in  the  night?  What  a  labor  to  live. 
At  the  top  of  the  hill  you  will  die.  How  steep  the 
hill  is,  how  barbarous  the  rocks !  *  Is  there  no  top  to 
this  hill,*  you  cry.  At  the  top  you  die.  You  live  a 
little  longer  after  you  are  dead — sl  minute  perhaps. 
That  minute  is  everlasting,  that  is  hell.  Hell 
is  timeless;  hell  has  no  locality;  for  you  it  is 
that  minute  when  you  are  dead  on  the  top  of 
the  hill!" 

Machinkoff  shuddered  and  pitched  forward.  Two 
of  the  men  caught  him,  and  brandy  was  poured  down 
his  throat.  In  a  minute  he  spoke.  "  There,"  he  said, 
"  I  almost  had  a  fit,"  but  his  eye  was  steady  and  cold, 
he  was  pleased  because  he  had  made  a  sensation;  he 
was  looking  for  Martin.  Martin  and  Steinbach  had 
gone.  Steinbach  was  walking  in  the  dining-room; 
in  a  miserable  temper.  He  had  gone  there  at  the  out- 
break of  clairvoyance.     Martin  had  just  been  in  to 


138  MARTIN  SCHULER 

him  and  had  struck  his  face.  Before  he  had 
time  to  retaliate  or  do  anything  else  Martin  wa^ 
gone. 

When  Martin  arrived  at  Hella's  house  it  was  after 
midnight.  He  let  himself  in  with  a  key  and  went  to 
her  bedroom.  The  opening  of  the  door  woke  her. 
She  saw  the  outline  of  a  man. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  she  said  breathlessly. 

"  I,"  said  Martin.    *1  am  betrayed !  "      • 

"  Who  has  betrayed  you  ?  '' 

"  Steinbach.  Oh,  my  God,  my  God! ''  he  cried;  "  I 
shall  kill  him.  I  shall  go  back  and  kill  him,  and  then 
myself." 

Hella  sprang  from  the  bed  and  ran  to  him.  "  Don*t, 
don^t!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Martin,  don't!"  She  felt 
his  breast  heave  in  fury. 

"  I  must  kill  that  man.  I  have  struck  him :  I  must 
kill  him." 

"  No,  no ! "  Hella  left  him  hastily  and  put  on  a 
dressing-gown.  Then  she  led  him  into  the  drawing- 
room.    She  believed  he  was  drunk. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  holding  his  arm  as  they  stood 
watching  the  red  embers  of  the  fire;  "my  dear,  do 
nothing  rash." 

"  Rash !  "  howled  Martin.  "  He  hired  a  Russian 
to  insult  me!  He  cannot  goad  me  into  servility  with 
his  insults.    I  shall  kill  him.    Let  me  but  tear  up  all  I 


LEIPSIC  139 

have  written,  let  me  but  get  back  when  they  have  all 
gone ! '' 

"  You  must  tear  nothing  up — for  my  sake,"  said 
Hella.  "  Remember  you  are  going  to  be  my  husband 
in  May.  My  husband!  I  want  my  husband  and  all 
his  works.  I  love  his  beautiful  works.  Oh,  dearest 
Martin,  I  love  you." 

"  May  is  not  the  question  now,"  said  Martin ;  "  I 
shall  shoot  Steinbach."  He  renounced,  however,  his 
last  intention  to  shoot  Steinbach  as  he  said  it.  Hella 
was  crying.  How  lovely  she  looked  with  her  hair 
flowing  over  her  shoulders !  She  was  good  too.  She 
loved  Martin  perfectly  and  unselfishly,  and  an  agony 
filled  her  heart  lest  he  should  do  anything  out- 
rageous. 

"  Darling,"  she  said,  "  you  must  not  kill  Bernard." 

Martin  growled,  "  You  can  marry  him."  The  reply, 
**  But  he  will  be  shot,"  sprang  to  her  lips.  She  almost 
smiled  as  she  answered  instead,  "  I  do  not  love  him." 

They  still  stood  in  front  of  the  fireplace.  Martin's 
hands  were  in  his  pockets.  He  frowned  and  puffed 
out  his  cheeks. 

"  I  cannot  go  back  to  his  house." 

A  huge  wave,  like  a  wave  of  the  sea,  caught  up 
Hella's  spirit  and  threw  it  at  his  feet. 

'*  You  can  stay  here,"  she  said  meekly. 

"  I  cannot." 

"  You  come  here  often,"  she  said,  almost  bitterly. 


140  MARTIN  SCHtJLER 

"  I  do,"  he  sighed,  but  he  turned  and  took  her  into 
his  arms.    **  Hella,  Hella,  my  love !  " 

She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  whispered  in 
his  ear,  "We  will  go  to  Switzerland.  Up  in  the 
mountains  you  will  forget;  just  alone,  you  and  I,  and 
you  can  call  me  your  wife." 

"  My  wife,"  said  Martin,  kissing  her  hand. 

**  And  we  will  not  think  of  Bernard  at  all." 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  I  will  shake  his  dust  off  the  soles 
of  ray  feet." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  those  days  it  was  still  possible  to  evade  the 
English  in  Switzerland,  but  then  one  lacked  con- 
venient hotels  and  life  was  not  very  comfortable. 
Martin  and  Hella  wished  above  everything  to  avoid 
people,  so  they  went  neither  to  Davos,  Caux,  nor  St. 
Moritz.  Lunn  was  beginning  to  popularize  the  Ber- 
nese Oberland  as  a  winter  resort  for  the  English  and 
to  import  as  social  attractions,  to  regions  where  society 
had  never  yet  flourished,  certain  poorer  members  of 
the  British  aristocracy.  It  was  probably  a  scheme 
remunerative  to  Mr.  Lunn  and  to  the  Swi^s,  but  to 
Hella  and  Martin,  who  wished  to  discover  some  place 
where  men  and  women  were  few,  its  results  did  not 
appeal.  Finally  they  took  a  chalet  near  Les  Avants, 
because  Les  Avants  was  small,  accessible,  and  not  too 
high. 

There,  in  a  small  chalet  overlooking  the  lake  of 
Geneva,  they  began  their  life  together.  All  day  they 
wandered  in  the  beautiful  clear  winter  sunshine,  or 
climbed  the  Col  du  Lion,  or  walked  down  the  gorge 
beside  the  half -frozen  mountain  torrent.  Below  and 
above  their  chalet  grew  immense  pines  of  a  description 
only  to  be  met  with  in  those  shaded  mountain  valleys, 

141 


142  MARTIN  SCHULER 

pines  from  whose  boughs  the  frozen  snow  continually 
slipped  with  a  soft  swish.  In  those  calm  still  days  of 
winter  sunshine  this  was  the  only  noise  that  invaded 
their  peace.  How  blissful  and  how  idle  their  life  was. 
Beauty  and  goodness  filled  their  hearts,  they  were  as 
pure  as  the  endless  snow  upon  the  mountains.  Some- 
times they  walked  high  upon  the  hillside  to  gaze  at 
the  panorama  of  the  Italian  mountains,  sometimes 
they  went  even  higher  amongst  the  rocks  to  gain  a 
view  of  Mont  Blanc,  remote  and  blue,  like  a  peak  of 
mist.  Before  them,  wherever  they  went,  stretched  the 
lake  and  the  long  Rhone  valley,  terminating  in  the 
beautiful  Dent  du  Midi.  Sometimes  they  took  the 
train  down  to  Vevey  and  pretended  to  be  frivolous  at 
a  tea-shop ;  sometimes  they  ventured  on  the  lake.  Hella 
was  never  tired  of  looking  at  Chillon,  she  sailed  past 
it,  and  walked  past  it,  and  entered  it  several  times.  But 
there  was  no  snow  in  Montreux  or  Vevey,  so  that  in 
spite  of  romantic  and  frivolous  attractions  they  did  not 
very  often  go  down  there.  They  preferred  to  be  high 
up  in  the  whiteness  of  the  snow,  or  under  the  warm 
shade  of  the  gigantic  pines.  They  read  many  books 
together  and  watched  many  sunsets.  Martin,  to  the 
outward  eye,  was  changed.  He  wrote  no  music  nor 
did  he  talk  about  it  except  vaguely  when  Hella  opened 
the  subject,  which  she  did  not  frequently  do.  He 
was  mild,  kind,  and  happy.  The  joy  of  loving  well 
and  generously  one  who  was  so  good  and  who  de- 


LEIPSIC  143 

pended  entirely  upon  him  for  her  happiness  took  hold 
of  him.  He  did  all  she  asked  him,  went  where  she 
wished,  sought  to  please  her  and  to  make  her  as  happy 
as  himself.  One  lovely  day  succeeded  another.  Rous- 
seau in  his  highest  idyllic  dream,  his  best  idyllic  experi- 
ence, never  surpassed  the  beauty  of  those  winter  days. 
The  golden  sunshine,  the  dark  green  trees,  the  white 
snow,  the  blue  lake,  entered  their  hearts.  They  were 
one  with  the  beauty  of  nature.  Their  thoughts  and 
their  conversation  were  too  bhssful  to  tell.  They 
dwelt  in  heaven.  Marvels  of  existence  were  revealed 
to  them;  they  spoke  to  one  another  of  these  revela- 
tions. Nothing  in  the  world  seemed  impossible.  The 
highest  and  most  remote  came  within  their  reach. 
They  grasped  it,  they  rode  among  the  stars.  At  night, 
in  the  cold  glitter  of  the  moon,  they  would  stand  on 
their  veranda  wrapped  in  the  same  fur  cloak,  and  with- 
out speech  would  enter  into  one  another's  souls.  Not 
a  moment  of  the  day  or  night  were  they  apart.  Their 
familiarity  became  complete.  Short,  happy  days,  and 
long,  rapturous  nights  glided  past — a  never-ending 
day,  a  never-ending  night.  The  depths  of  their  souls 
were  disclosed,  their  minds  were  awakened  to  their 
own  deepness,  the  profundity  of  human  nature,  the 
magnitude  of  human  love. 

They  met  in  that  oblivion  where  the  human  soul 
becomes  utterly  lost  in  one  perfect  light  made  of  the 
(essence  of  oneness,  made  of  the  perfection  of  thought, 


144  MARTIN  SCHULER 

and  of  the  perfection  of  physical  tension,  when  every 
nerve  of  the  body  is  alive  and  perfectly  controlled. 
They  knew  the  complete  self -consciousness  of  the 
body:  no  ugly  frenzy  of  inequality  but  the  loveliness 
of  the  purest  free-will  and  the  passionless  beauty  of 
restraint.  The  delicate  and  most  wonderful  contacts 
of  supreme  love  beautiful  and  strong  finger-touches, 
the  light  caresses,  the  meeting  of  lips:  give  wings  to 
the  soul,  upon  which  it  flies  a  million  miles  above  the 
stars,  so  that  they  look  below  like  silver  streaks  in 
space.  The  soul  poises  a  little  while  looking  down- 
wards; it  cannot  look  up,  it  is  supreme;  it  looks  side- 
ways and  around  for  it  knows  that  this  instant  of  time 
will  never  return  except  in  memory.  It  shines  white 
like  pure  light  and  suddenly  bursts  into  a  million  sil- 
very sparks  that  shower  and  scatter  and  flow  forth  like 
the  fountains  of  the  day.  An  instant,  and  then  dark- 
ness falls  over  space,  and  time,  pain,  and  conscious- 
ness, restraint,  beauty,  and  attainment,  life,  desire, 
passion,  and  supremacy  fade  into  the  deepness  of  the 
wonderful  and  silent  night. 

When  the  snow  began  to  melt  and  to  lay  bare  great 
green  patches  on  the  hillside,  they  gathered  hepatica 
and  crocuses  together,  primroses  and  white  and  purple 
violets.  The  saturated  fields  were  full  of  flowers.  They 
wandered  down  the  slopes  through  little  woods  and 
crawled  under  bushes  for  the  hepatica;  "  fille  avant  la 
mere"  it  is  called  because  the  mauve  flowers  appear 


LEIPSIC  145 

long  before  the  leaves.  No  day  passed  during  the 
spring  thaw  without  a  walk.  They  walked  chiefly  in  the 
gorge,  and  Martin,  intrepid  and  bold,  waded  out  of 
sheer  lightness  of  heart  across  the  widest  part  of  the 
torrent  with  Hella  in  his  arms.  Their  ecstatic  happi- 
ness seemed  not  to  wane ;  neither  of  them  could  surfeit 
of  love-making  and  kissing.  Every  time  they  kissed 
was  a  new  love.  In  the  woods  sometimes  they  would 
suddenly  kiss,  and  a  blind  oneness  would  possess  them 
for  a  moment.  Sometimes  they  denied  themselves  an 
embrace  till  their  hearts  cried  out  to  meet.  They  found 
a  thousand  expressions  of  their  love.  When  the  clouds 
rolled  below  them,  close  upon  the  lake,  they  had  the 
sensation  of  being  in  that  material  heaven  so  dear  to 
man's  imagination.  When  they  descended  through  the 
fir  trees  down  into  the  valley  they  had  the  sensation  of 
sinking  into  the  oblivion  of  love.  When  they  stood 
high  upon  the  hills  in  the  wind  of  early  spring,  they 
felt  ybung  and  strong.  Courage,  weariness,  hope,  sad- 
ness, aspiration,  wonder,  fear,  thankfulness:  none  of 
these  things  did  they  experience.  In  their  bliss  was 
nothing  but  gladness,  certainty,  and  attainment. 


CHAPTER  Xiy 

MARCH  became  April,  and  April  May,  and 
Martin    Schiiler    went    to    Interlaken    with 
Hella  von  Rosenthal.    They  had  heard  noth- 
ing from  Steinbach,  though  Martin,  in  a  moment  of 
good  feeling  towards  humanity,  had  written  an  apology 
to  him. 

In  those  days,  behind  the  Hotel  du  Nord  was  a  field 
full  of  flowers :  forget-me-nots,  primroses,  and  daisies; 
fuller  of  flowers  than  any  other  field  in  the  world.  It 
was  away  from  the  main  road,  beside  an  old  monastery 
church,  the  vaults  of  which  were  used  as  a  beer  cellar. 
Here  in  the  early  part  of  summer,  before  visitors  in- 
fested Interlaken,  one  could  pass  whole  days  and  see 
nobody  but  an  occasional  peasant.  Hella  called  it  the 
Champs  Elysees,  for  she  and  Martin  frequently  sat 
there  together  and  talked  and  wrote  poetry  and  passed 
idyllic  days.  When  they  were  tired  of  the  sight  of  the 
Jungfrau  and  the  Scheidech  and  the  well-wooded  foot- 
hills of  the  Oberland,  they  sat  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  huge  walnut  trees  that  grew  beside  the  church.  The 
ancient  trees  and  the  old  church  were,  in  quality  and 
color,  like  those  old  trees  and  churches  which  one  sees 
in  landscape  pictures  of  the  late  eighteenth  century. 

146 


LEIPSIC  147 

There  was  repose  beneath  them,  and  a  feeling  of  rural 
domesticity.  Here  village  revels  were  held  in  former 
times,  and  solemn  Calvinistic  ceremonies  performed. 
Here  children  sometimes  played  while  their  mothers 
gossiped  and  made  lace.  Hans  Andersen  probably  saw 
Rudi's  prototype  kiss  a  village  girl  in  the  secluded 
shadows  of  the  church  walls;  probably  Byron  had 
lolled  upon  these  grasses,  dressed  fantastically  in  peas- 
ant costume,  handsome  and  emotional,  lazy  and  ener- 
getic. The  ancient  quality  of  that  shady  place  brought 
peace  and  the  quiet  things  of  love  closer  to  Hella.  She 
enjoyed  the  placid  calmness  of  her  love  there  as  one 
enjoys  the  serenity  of  a  lake  after  the  turmoil  of  the 
ocean. 

In  the  warm  afternoon,  when  she  and  Martin  sat 
together  there,  the  proprietor  of  the  Hotel  du  Nord, 
their  host,  used  to  watch  them  through  a  gap  in  the 
hedge  that  gave  access  to  this  field.  He  was  a  fat 
Swiss,  and  habitually  wore  a  gray  suit  and  a  small 
straw  hat.  He  used  to  wonder  how  Herr  and  Madame 
von  Schiller  could  lie  for  such  hours  in  a  common 
field  instead  of  commandeering  his  carriages  for  end- 
less expeditions.  He  spent  a  long  time  in  that  gap 
wondering  who  the  von  Schiilers  were,  and  excused  his 
idleness  by  pretending  to  scare  birds  off  his  grass-seed 
patch.  People  did  not  usually  come  to  his  small  hotel 
so  early.  When  the  first  visitor  came  the  seed  grass 
was  usually  cut,  his  wife  had  usually  been  replaced 


148  MARTIN  SCHULER 

by  a  chef,  and  his  son  by  a  few  waiters  more  awake  to 
their  work. 

On  the  tenth  of  May  Martin  received  a  parcel  from 
Steinbach  with  a  short,  business-like  letter  asking  him 
kindly  to  go  through  the  contents  and  to  make  what 
alterations  he  liked.  Martin  did  as  he  was  asked  and 
then  thrust  the  parcel  into  his  portmanteau. 

One  hot  morning,  as  he  and  Hella  were  in  their  field, 
Hella  sighed  and  said,  "  I  could  live  and  die  in  this 
field!  I  love  these  forget-me-nots  and  I  love  you." 
Then  she  whispered,  "  Forget-we-not,  forget-m^- 
not!'*  and  ran  her  hands  through  the  grass  and 
flowers  as  if  they  were  the  hair  of  the  earth's  head. 
"  Haven't  we  been  happy  here?  "  She  picked  all  the 
forget-me-nots  in  her  reach.  "  I  never  want  to  go 
back  to  Leipsic." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  Lauterbrunnen  again,"  said 
Martin ;  "  I  want  to  see  old  Staubach  once  more." 

"  You  old  tourist,"  smiled  Hella. 

"  You  can  stay  here  for  ever,"  said  Martin,  "  if  you 
like." 

"  It  is  not  nice  in  summer,  I  know  by  experience ! 
If  we  could  only  keep  the  weather,  and  the  wistaria, 
and  the  emptiness,  and  this  flowery  field ! " 

"Hella,"  said  Martin,  "I  love  you  inexpressibly." 
They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  moment. 

Then  Martin  said,  "Hella!" 

"Yes." 


LEIPSIC  149 

"  Steinbach  has  sent  me  my  opera  comedy 
finished.'* 

"What?  that  comedy!" 

"  Yes ;  I  am  amazed.  It  is  wonderfully  amalga- 
mated ;  he  must  have  rifled  my  desk.  All  the  best  parts 
I  ever  made  for  it  and  a  multitude  of  harmonies  and 
odd  tunes  are  incorporated.  Two  songs  need  altera- 
tion. I  did  not  think  such  a  thing  was  possible.  It  is 
very  good.  Do  you  object  if  I  ask  him  to  come  down 
here  for  a  week  ?  " 

"  Oh/'  cried  Hella,  "  do  not  let  us  spoil  this  with 
him!  I  would  rather  go  back:  either  idea  is  hateful, 
Martin ! " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  see  him,"  said  Martin ;  "  I  have 
the  fever.  I  did  not  realize  that  I  had  done  such 
brilliant  works  of  art."  He  laughed.  "  It  is  really  a 
very  nice  comedy;  the  waltzes  and  songs  are  charm- 
ing. Steinbach  will  have  it  played  for  me  on  the  first 
of  June,  my  twenty-fifth  birthday.  He  is  an  admirable 
ass.     The  book  is  good,  too." 

Hella's  heart  sank  into  the  bottomless  pit.  "  Oh !  " 
she  said,  "  this  was  too  lovely  to  last.  Martin,  I  want 
the  impossible." 

"  What,  dear  love  ?  "  said  Martin. 

She  stuck  pink  forget-me-nots  in  his  mustache. 
His  mustache  was  too  short  to  hold  flowers.  They 
fell  out  as  he  kissed  her  hands. 

"  I  want  to  be  alone  with  you  always,"  she  said. 


I50  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"We  will  always  be  happy,"  said  Martin;  "we 
will  get  a  house  in  Leipsic." 

"  It  will  be  funny  to  return,"  said  Hella ;  "  I  am  not 
what  I  was  when  I  left  it;  how  much  happier,  a  thou- 
sand times  happier!  Do  you  know  I  am  a  bad 
woman  ?  " 

"What?"  said  Martin,  kissing  her  ear. 

"  A  bad  woman,"  cried  Hella,  laughing  and  pushing 
his  face  away  because  his  breath  tickled  her. 

"  You  have  been  faithful  to  me,"  said  Martin. 

She  put  her  head  down  on  the  grass  and  looked  side- 
ways at  his  face,  which  was  close  to  her  own. 

"  I  am  so  happy,"  she  said,  "  I  have  gone  to  the  devil. 
Darling,  you  can  throw  me  off  absolutely  any  minute." 

"  So  I  can,"  said  Martin. 

Hella  had  never  discussed  their  relationship  before ; 
they  had  both  taken  it  for  granted.  Now  she  did  so 
with  a  beating  heart  and  a  pleasant  feeling  of  daring. 

"  I  am  your  mistress,"  she  said. 

Martin  put  his  hand  over  her  mouth.  His  unconven- 
tionality  was  almost  shocked.  "Lawful  observances 
are  nothing  to  me,"  he  said;  "  if  I  ceased  to  love  you 
I  should  leave  you  in  any  case.  Tell  me,  who  is  in  the 
happier  position,  a  wife  who  has  divorced  her  husband, 
or  a  deserted  mistress  ?    Both  are  free  in  either  case." 

"  Do  not  talk  about  it  any  more,"  said  Hella. 

"  No,"  said  Martin.  "  It  is  too  hot  here ;  my  legs 
are  burnt.    The  sun  makes  me  sweat." 


LEIPSIC  151 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Hella;  "  I  like  being  very  hot.  It 
will  make  me  thin/' 

"  You  are  thin  enough.    I  forbid  you  to  alter." 

Hella  kissed  him  under  the  parasol. 

It  was  very  hot,  and  high  noon,  so  presently  they 
went  and  sat  under  the  walnut  trees.  Blue  shadows 
and  white  sunshine  checkered  the  grass  upon  which 
they  sat. 

*'  I  have  been  idle,"  said  Martin. 

"I  have  been  happy,"  said  Hella.  She  felt  as  if 
this  moment  were  the  end  of  something  precious,  as  if 
it  were  a  moment  placid  to  the  mind,  yet,  to  the  deeper 
consciousness,  one  of  grave  importance,  like  the  day 
when  war  becomes  inevitable,  or  when  death  begins  to 
set  in — a  day  without  apparent  significance.  Her 
deeper  consciousness  said  "  Farewell,"  and  put  in  the 
irrevocable  past  a  season  that  to  her  would  make  her 
life  worth  having  been  lived.  Although  she  knew  that 
her  natural  attitude  was  gone,  and  that  every  day 
would  now  be  wasted  in  an  endeavor  to  make  the  most 
of  it,  when  Martin  said,  "  I  think  I  shall  go  back  to- 
morrow," she  begged  for  another  week  of  happiness. 

"  I  must  go  to-morrow,"  he  decided,  and  got  up.  His 
determination  was  stubborn  once  he  had  made  up  his 
mind.  "  We  will  go  to  see  old  Staubach  once  more 
this  afternoon.  I  want  to  depart  with  that  sound  in 
my  ears." 

Hella  would  have  preferred  to  sail  once  more  upon 


152  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Lake  Thun.  She  had  a  passionate  love  of  sailing  upon 
still  water.  She  did  not  say  so  to  Martin,  but  she  was 
conscious  of  being  opposed  to  one  who  for  months 
had  been  as  herself.  They  went  into  the  hotel  for 
lunch. 

They  stood  near  the  waterfall  and  got  splashed,  and 
were  amazed  at  the  height  from  which  it  fell.  The 
rainbows  in  the  spray  brought  back  to  Hella  that  feel- 
ing of  hope  which  had  been  so  long  unnecessary  to  her. 
At  the  end  of  its  fall  the  water  was  as  light  and  diffused 
as  rain.  The  light  breeze  blew  it  about  as  if  it  were 
the  end  of  a  long  veil.  Martin  would  not  go  far  away 
from  it  as  long  as  they  were  in  Lauterbrunnen.  It  had 
a  fascination  for  him.  They  spent  the  afternoon  upon 
the  grass  slopes  near  it,  and  picked  gentian  because  they 
were  as  blue  as  Hella's  eyes  and  as  the  sea  which 
Martin  had  never  seen.  Hella  was  horrified  to  hear 
he  had  never  seen  the  sea.  He  reminded  her  of  his 
mediaeval  youth  and  the  lack  of  imagination  of  his 
parents.  "  Several  people  in  Heidelberg  have  never 
seen  the  sea,"  he  said ;  "  we  do  not  go  to  Ostend  for 
our  holidays  like  the  Colognese." 

"You  must  go  with  me  to  Norway,"  said  Hella, 
"  and  hear  the  sea  roar  amongst  the  rocks.  It  seems 
incredible  never  to  have  seen  the  sea.  You  have  never 
seen  anything  really  flat,  nor  anything  larger  than  your 
eye  can  look  at,  nor  anything  deep;  Oh,  Martin,  the 


LEIPSIC  153 

sea !  You  would  love  me  there !  I  can  hear  the  waves 
thunder  over  the  rocks,  surging  upwards  and  then  sink- 
ing back  with  a  rushing  sound  and  a  rattling  of  thou- 
sands of  pebbles.  Oh,  it  is  so  endless  and  eternal! — 
Martin,  you  must  go  to  the  sea!  How  circumscribed 
this  valley  is !  Like  a  crevice  among  rocks.  You  must 
see  the  motion  and  continual  heaving  of  the  sea.  The 
only  thing  I  know  of  like  the  sea  is  the  Hungarian 
plain,  but  it  is  still.  I  must  take  you  to  the  blue,  calm 
Italian  sea,  too,  where  distant  land  is  visible,  and 
islands.    You  must  stand  on  an  island." 

"Perhaps  I  will  go  some  day,"  said  Martin,  who 
knew  without  having  beheld  it — because  he  was  de- 
scended of  man — the  whole  nature  of  the  sea.  It  had 
probably  a  greater  significance  for  him  because  he  had 
never  seen  it;  things  unseen  are  often  most  wonderful 
to  us.  "  But  people,"  he  added,  "  have  exclaimed  on 
beholding  the  sea  for  the  first  time,  *  How  tame ! '  on 
beholding  mountains,  '  How  low ! '  on  seeing  foreign 
countries,  thrilling  to  their  imaginations,  'How 
dull!'" 

Martin  looked  up  at  the  Jungfrau.  "There  is  my 
test  of  imagination,"  he  said.  The  glittering  blue  ice 
of  the  glacier  sparkled  in  the  sun;  the  whiteness  of 
the  mountain  peak  rose  wreathed  in  light  clouds 
into  a  superb  blue  sky.  "The  sea  cannot  be  more 
beautiful." 

"  I  would  like  to  go  to  the  South  Pole,"  said  Hella. 


154  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Captain  Scott  had  just  returned  from  one  of  his 
expeditionSi 

"  You  would  like  the  world  to  be  smooth/*  laughed 
Martin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hella,  "  I  like  expanse." 

"There  we  differ,"  said  Martin,  whose  love  for 
her  was  cool  that  afternoon.  "  I  prefer  uprightness 
and  deep-downwardness  unfilled  by  flat  earth  and 
water.  I  rejoice  in  the  confines  of  this  narrow  valley. 
Wonderf ullest  of  all  valleys  1  I  like  the  perpendicular 
waterfalls  and  the  menace  of  overhanging  cliffs.  Give 
me  precipices  and  high  mountains,  give  me  a  gazing 
upwards  and  downwards,  give  me  gorges,  give  me 
passes !  To  me  the  Iron  Gate  is  the  symbol  of  imagi- 
nation, the  sheer  ascent  of  the  Jungfrau  the  symbol  of 
aspiration,  the  blueness  of  moonlit  white  peaks  the 
symbol  of  fineness,  the  piled-up  mountains  grandeur ! — 
Mont  Blanc,  Chimborazo,  Everest,  the  earth's  attain- 
ment." He  smiled  at  Hella.  "  You  are  a  quiet  woman 
and  a  singular  woman.  Your  passions  are  wide  and 
deep  and,  I  should  say,  everlasting.  Mine  rear  them- 
selves towards  the  sky.  You  and  I  are  the  mountain 
and  the  plain;  on  you  I  raise  myself,  I  am  nearer  the 
stars.  O  low-lying  plain,  your  constancy,  not  your 
poetry,  is  your  beauty."  He  pretended  that  he  was 
teasing  her,  but  he  was  not. 

When  the  afternoon  drew  to  a  close  they  went  to 
have  tea  in  a  cherry  orchard  full  of  white  blossom. 


LEIPSIC  155 

They  bought  wooden  swallows  and  carved  spoons  from 
a  brown  little  Swiss  boy,  and  coarse,  narrow  lace  from 
a  little  brown  girl  with  her  hair  in  pigtails. 

"Shall  we  ever  have  a  little  boy  and  girl?'*  said 
Martin,  patting  the  little  girl's  head. 

"  With  the  grace  of  God  and  the  mercy  of  our 
Lady,"  said  the  infant. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hella,  "  when  we  are  married.  I  will 
not  inflict  illegitimacy  upon  children." 

Their  last  day  in  Switzerland  was  like  the  last  day 
of  any  long  honeymoon — the  beginning  of  that  time 
when  adaptation  sets  in.  Martin  had  none  of  the 
domestic  qualities.  Hella  might  elevate  herself  on  to 
a  pedestal  sufficiently  high  for  his  worship,  she  might 
become  his  slave,  she  might  become  his  mother,  and, 
putting  aside  all  jealousy,  guard  his  selfishness  with 
devoted  care.  One  could  not  tell  what  Hella  would 
do.  She  might  continue  passionately  to  love  him  and 
refuse  his  secondary  love,  for  it  was  as  improbable  as 
a  dream  that  his  passion  for  her  would  endure,  that 
his  inconstancy  should  for  her  become  constancy. 

They  returned  to  Interlaken  by  the  half -past  six 
train,  which  brought  them  to  the  station  at  eight.  The 
evening  was  so  beautiful  that  Martin,  who  found  in 
woods  a  secret  of  inspiration,  suggested  that  they 
should  walk  home  by  the  Heimweh  Fluh. 

When  they  were  deep  in  the  woods  Hella  said, 


156  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"Our  last  stroll!  Kiss  me,  Martin."  Her  emotion 
was  very  deep. 

Martin  kissed  her  and  said,  "I  told  you  I  once 
seduced  a  girl  ?  " 

"  Yes,  do  not  remind  me  of  that  now,"  said  Hella, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  kiss  me  now — ^kiss  me,  only 
me;  tell  me  I  am  all  you  love  in  the  world." 

"  You  are  all  I  love  in  the  world,*'  said  Martin,  and 
his  thoughts  flew  to  his  opera  comedy. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  '*  said  Hella ;  '*  I  saw 
your  thoughts  fly  to  something." 

Martin  answered  candidly.  "  I  was  thinking  how 
my  opera  would  sound  on  an  orchestra." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Hella,  sadly,  "  not  of  me." 

"  Of  you  all  the  while;  I  always  think  of  you." 

They  sauntered  along  through  the  woods  in  silence, 
until  Hella  suddenly  said,  "  Martin !  " 

They  stopped  under  the  gloomy  trees. 

Hella  looked  at  Martin  and  cried  all  of  a  sudden, 
"  I  do  not  know  how  to  keep  you !  I  am  a  child. 
There  is  nothing  to  compare  with  you  in  all  the 
world." 

Martin  took  her  in  his  arms;  his  heart  suddenly 
swelled  with  great  feelings.  "My  lovely  one,"  he 
said. 

"  How  gentle  you  are,"  whispered  Hella.  "  How 
gentle!    I  adore  you." 

She  rested  against  him  peacefully.    He  kissed  her 


LEIPSIC  157 

passionately  as  he  knew  she  liked  to  be  kissed,  then 
picked  her  up  in  his  arms. 

"  In  my  power !"  he  said. 

"  Utterly !  "  she  sighed ;  "  so  beautiful !  " 

He  carried  her  some  distance  in  his  arms.  In  the 
dim  light  he  could  discern  that  her  eyes  were  shut  and 
feel  her  soft,  regular  breath. 

"  If  I  left  her,"  he  thought,  "  what  would  she  do!  " 
A  kaleidoscopic  vision  of  her  grief  ran  before  him. 
He  stood  holding  her  for  a  moment,  and  said,  "  I  do 
love  you,  Hella,  better  than  my  life." 

For  a  moment  he  stood  upon  a  pinnacle  of  goodness, 
and  then  her  weight  impressed  itself  upon  his  arms 
and  he  gently  put  her  on  the  ground.  She  awoke  and 
murmured,  "  Lovely,  lovely !  we  do  love." 

"  I  am  your  slave,"  he  said,  sitting  at  her  feet ;  he 
in  turn  succumbed  to  love,  and  kissed  and  then  em- 
braced her  passionately. 

They  sat  together  in  the  deep  shade,  bewildered. 
Their  love  reunited  them  after  the  gentle  estrangement 
of  the  day.  As  if  for  the  last  time  love  made  a  final 
and  supreme  expression  of  itself  in  them.  The  bene- 
ficence of  the  past  day  floated  up  from  around  them, 
the  pines  exhaled  an  aromatic  perfume  upon  them,  the 
white,  dew-laden  winds  from  the  lake  blew  softly  past 
them.  Small  and  still  and  silent  they  sat  among  the 
vast   mountains,    indistinguishable   among  the    dark 


158  MARTIN  SCHULER 

trees;  little  beings  in  the  grandeur  of  nature.  The 
mountains  and  the  valleys,  the  hills  and  forests,  turned 
with  the  turning  earth  further  and  further  away  from 
the  sun,  but  to  Hella  and  Martin  it  seemed  as  if  the 
world  stood  still,  as  if  the  peaceful  darkness  hid  them 
in  the  eternity  of  death  with  their  immortal  and  tran- 
scending passion  of  love. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  June  1st  an  orchestral  rehearsal  of  "The 
Coquettes "  was  held  in  the  Neues  Theater 
of  Leipsic.  As  Hella,  Martin,  and  Steinbach 
drove  together  in  an  open  cab  across  the  Rossplatz, 
the  two  men  seemed  perfectly  reconciled.  Hella  was 
delighted  with  both  of  them.  It  was  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  she  had  persuaded  Martin  to  ride  in  the 
cab  with  Steinbach.  Even  as  it  was  he  had  endeavored 
to  be  so  late  that  Steinbach  would  have  driven  off 
without  him.  Steinbach  was  prepared  to  wait  till 
doomsday.  He  had  gracefully  acquiesced  in  Martin's 
relationship  with  Hella.  All  that  a  man  could  do  he 
had  done ;  he  had  yielded  everything  in  order  to  gain 
his  end ;  but  the  prospect,  now  that  his  end  was  in  view, 
gave  him  no  pleasure.  His  happiness  seemed  to  have 
been  twisted  back  to  front;  he  felt  entirely  the  wrong 
way  on.  His  determination,  and  his  subordination  of 
all  human  considerations,  had  enabled  him  by  a  judi- 
cious selection  of  helpers  to  complete  the  work  of 
another  man.  A  chosen  path  to  him  was  the  path  of 
his  life,  he  permitted  himself  no  change;  in  fact, 
change  to  him  was  impossible.  The  opera  was  about 
to  be  launched  upon  the  world.    It  was  an  achieve- 

159 


i6o  MARTIN  SCHULER 

ment  of  lightness.  Steinbach's  share  in  its  construc- 
tion had  been  arduous.  Although  he  knew  that  his 
labors  had  been  successful,  he  was  disappointed;  he 
was  disappointed  because  Martin  was  not  his  friend, 
because  he  had  behaved  badly  to  him  and  had  not 
kept  his  compact  of  cooperation.  Disgusted,  but  de- 
termined to  bring  the  episode  to  a  satisfactory  close, 
he  had  prepared  everything  for  the  final  obsequies,  as 
it  were.  He  spared  no  expense.  In  the  New  Theater, 
towards  which  they  were  driving,  were  collected 
together  the  persons  who  were  to  be  asked  to  produce 
it.  Steinbach  drew  out  his  watch  with  a  familiar 
movement  as  they  passed  the  Museum. 

"  Just  so,"  he  said ;  "  we  are  half  an  hour  late." 
He  looked  up  towards  the  pseudo-renaissance  eleva- 
tion of  the  theater.     "  At  last,"  he  thought,  "  I  have 
got  this  horse  to  the  water.    In  a  minute  Fll  make  him 
drink." 

Hella  was  excited.  She  sat  beside  Martin  in  a 
new  dress  of  blue  crepe  de  Chine  and  blue  silk  braid- 
lace.  It  fitted  tightly  round  her  figure,  but  at  the 
hem  flowed  out  into  a  shower  of  accordion-pleated 
chiffon  frills.  The  bell  sleeves  hung  gracefully  over 
her  hands,  the  collar  rose  to  her  very  ears.  Upon  her 
head  she  wore  a  large  blue  hat  of  fine  straw,  shaped 
like  a  dish,  which  projected  over  her  face  but  was  cut 
away  almost  like  a  Salvation  Army  bonnet  at  the 
back.    Chiffon  strings  secured  it  under  her  chin.    At 


LEIPSIC  i6i 

her  waist  she  had  a  bunch  of  pink  carnations  to  match 
the  one  pink  flower  in  her  hat.  Her  face  was  sHghtly 
flushed  and  she  looked  very  pretty.  As  they  drove 
up  to  the  theater  she  slipped  her  hand  into  Martin's 
and  gave  his  a  squeeze. 

Martin  was  in  a  bad  temper.  He  had  manufactured 
a  quarrel  with  Hella,  one  of  their  many  recent  quar- 
rels. They  were  all  of  his  doing ;  she  was  as  patient  as 
a  lamb  with  him.  She  had  not  kissed  him  properly  that 
morning,  he  said,  or  something  equally  stupid.  He 
was  angry  because  he  had  been  forced  to  ride  in  a  cab 
with  Steinbach.  He  felt  full  of  ill-will  towards  every- 
body. Now  it  was  beginning  to  rain  too,  and  he  was 
quite  sick  of  the  name  of  his  opera.  Why  he  had  ever 
shown  a  moment's  interest  in  it  he  could  not  say. 
Now  he  was  forced  to  attend  this  performance.  Why 
should  he?  There  was  really  no  law  passed  to  make 
him.  It  was  only  an  orchestral  rehearsal.  No  use. 
If  Steinbach  cared  to  waste  his  money,  let  him.  After 
all,  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  get  out  of  the  cab 
and  make  a  fuss  now.  He  decided,  in  spite  of  the 
waste  of  time,  to  go  through  with  it. 

The  performance  was  concluded.  The  conductor 
turned  and  bowed  to  Martin  and  he  felt  pleased.  Soon 
the  financiers,  managers,  and  directors  adjourned  from 
the  grand  circle  to  a  box  where  they  could  talk  freely. 
When  Martin  found  himself  an  object  of  no  notice  in 


i62  MARTIN  SCHULER 

the  middle  of  the  dress-circle,  in  the  center  of  buzzing 
and  stupid  friends,  he  was  cross.  He  thought  he  was 
being  slighted.  He  got  up  and  hurried  round  to  the 
box.  Hella  followed  him.  He  flung  the  door  open 
and  said  in  a  loud  voice,  "  May  I  say  a  word  ?  I 
consider  the  opera  too  bad  to  produce.  I  intend  to 
rewrite  it." 

Makintire,  the  broker,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
let  his  arms  fall  to  his  sides. 

"  You  fool,  Schuler!  "  said  Steinbach;  "  you  fool!  " 
His  obstinate  patience  had  given  out. 

The  director  said,  "  I  cannot  undertake  to  produce 
it  if  it  is  rewritten.  It  has  a  very  probable  chance  of 
some  success  as  it  stands." 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Martin,"  whispered  Hella; 
"  don't  be  foolish." 

Makintire  came  towards  him.  "  Herr  Schuler,"  he 
said,  "  reconsider  what  you  have  said.  Surely  so  fine 
a  money-making  production  ought  not  to  be  lost.  It 
is  worth  a  great  deal  of  marks  to  my  pocket  even." 
Martin's  conduct  had  made  up  everybody's  minds  that 
the  desirable  thing  to  do  was  to  have  the  opera  pro- 
duced. Steinbach  was  tense.  His  father,  who  was 
there  to  countenance  his  son  with  the  brokers,  began 
to  be  silly  and  persuasive.  Ancient  Rosenbaum,  Mak- 
intire's  decrepit  partner,  was  making  totally  useless 
and  elaborate  calculations.  The  manager  of  the  thea- 
ter kept  his  eyes  on  the  director,  and  the  director — • 


LEIPSIC  163 

grandiose,  young-middle-aged  and  essentially  Prus- 
sian— was  smiling  to  himself,  and  thinking  what  a 
fine  young  woman  Hella  was.  He  was  calmly  await- 
ing the  moment  when  all  the  disturbances  should  have 
been  settled.  Then  he  would  give  his  vote  whichever 
way  he  chose.  Having  spent  several  years  in  the  army 
and  retired  a  colonel,  he  was  quite  satisfied  with  his 
superiority  over  mankind.  Hella  was  just  behind 
Martin.  Pride  rose  in  Martin.  He  wanted  to  exert 
himself  like  Samson.  He  wanted  to  kick  everybody 
over  the  edge  of  the  box  into  the  stalls.  He  wanted 
to  escape  and  write  a  grand  grand-opera.  Hella  was 
behind  him.  One  cannot  brave  out  the  foe  at  one's 
back.  Her  hand  touched  his  back.  He  wavered.  It 
was  his  birthday.  He  remembered  his  bearishness  of 
the  morning.  His  birthday  kisses  had  fallen  flat.  He 
had  meant  to  enjoy  to-day,  but  he  had  not.  He 
thought  his  love  for  Hella  must  be  going  off,  which 
was  true.  Suddenly  it  seemed  that  everybody  was 
asking  for  something.  Why  not  give?  He  began  to 
be  flattered  by  the  obvious  attitude  of  petitioning  that 
every  one  seemed  to  be  adopting  towards  him.  He 
began  to  think  he  might  enjoy  the  success  of  this  af- 
fair. Hella  touched  him  again  in  a  vital  spot.  He 
did  not  at  once  see  how  to  give  in.  Then  the 
brilliant  notions  of  gallantry,  reconciliation,  and 
triumphant  climbing  down  all  occurred  to  him 
simultaneously. 


i64  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"What  do  you  wish,"  he  said,  turning  around^ 
"Hella  von  Schiiler?^' 

Hella  had  never  been  called  this  before.  Old  Stein- 
bach  winked  at  the  director  as  being  the  most  jocose 
man  present,  but  every  one  else*s  eyes  were  turned  on 
Hella. 

Hella  was  not  prepared  for  any  such  denouement. 
She  blushed  deeply. 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  it  to  be  done,"  she  said,  "  if 
Herr  Schiiler  wants  it.'* 

Bernard  Steinbach  was  shaking  her  by  the  hand, 
the  director  was  murmuring  some  compliment,  some 
one  was  clapping  his  hands  and  saying  "  Brava !  " 

Thus  the  tedious  affair  came  to  be  settled. 

They  drove  away  from  the  theater  in  the  late  after- 
noon in  a  shut  cab,  for  the  rain  was  pouring  down. 
Martin  and  Hella  were  alone  together. 

"  Ah !  well,"  said  Martin,  looking  with  fixed  eyes 
across  the  gray  spaces  of  the  Augustplatz,  "  my  first 
public  step  is  made."  Hella  felt  sad;  she  seemed  to 
see  some  unhappy  thoughts  in  his  face.  She  sat  closer 
to  him. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  *'  for  being  naughty  to  yoii 
this  morning.  I  won't  ever  answer  back  again.  Be 
happy  on  your  birthday." 

"  All  days  are  alike,"  said  Martin.  "  What  a  dreary 
occasion  that  was." 


LEIPSIC  ,  165 

"  But  I  love  you." 

He  put  an  arm  around  her. 

"  I  try  to  think,"  he  said,  "  that  love  is  the  great 
compensation,  but  it  is  as  hard  work  as  anything  else 
and  does  not  make  anything  easier." 


BERLIN 


BERLIN 
CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  Countess  von  Ardstein  was  an  extremely 
ugly  woman.  Although  she  was  barely  fifty 
years  of  age  her  skin  was  dry  and  wrinkled 
and  her  hair  was  gray.  It  is  said  that  once  she  had 
been  very  handsome,  but  now  her  teeth  were  long  and 
wide  apart  and  almost  as  brown  as  her  skin.  She 
was  as  thin  as  a  lath,  and  her  hands,  covered  with 
brown  skin  in  which  a  multitude  of  little  dried  veins 
showed,  were  like  the  claws  of  an  old  witch.  She 
was  altogether  like  an  old  female  necromancer  es- 
caped into  society.  She  could  read  Latin  and  Greek, 
and  had  a  passion  for  money,  music,  art,  and  house- 
hold economy.  Her  costly  clothes  were  horrible.  She 
always  wore  fur  somewhere  about  her  person,  and  a 
touch  of  either  emerald  green  or  turquoise  blue. 
These  were  her  favorite  colors.  In  the  daytime  she 
perched  high  hats,  bedecked  with  ostrich  feathers, 
upon  her  hair,  and  decorated  herself  with  bags,  reti- 
cules, chatelaines,  umbrellas,  parasols,  and  boas.  At 
night  she  always  wore  decolIetCy  which  she  adored, 
although  her  figure  was  such  that  only  with  great 

169 


170  MARTIN  SCHULER 

difficulty  did  she  evade  slipping  out  of  her  clothes,  the 
contours  of  which  were  constructed  by  dressmakers 
out  of  buckram.  Her  evening  dresses  were  always  so 
much  too  large  for  her  that  it  was  quite  possible  for 
her  to  turn  around  inside  them. 

Had  she  not  existed  before  the  eyes  of  her  friends 
they  would  have  credited  her  only  as  one  of  those  ex- 
aggerated impressions  of  clever  women  given  on  the 
stage.  To  those  who  knew  her  she  seemed  quite  nat- 
ural, for  her  eyes  were  undimmed  and  beautiful,  and 
her  voice  pleasant,  though  given  to  uttering  quick  and 
often  sarcastic  phrases.  There  was  nobody  more  gen- 
erally popular  in  Berlin ;  she  continued  throughout  her 
life  to  make  new  friends  and  rarely  lost  her  old  ones. 
The  directness  and  force  of  her  personality  com- 
manded attention,  her  assurance  commanded  respect; 
she  had  also  the  gifts  of  wit,  success,  and  sympathy, 
and  that  peculiar  ability  which  often  coincides  with 
neither  beauty  nor  wealth,  of  attracting  and  subject- 
ing any  male  being  she  chose.  She  had  political  in- 
fluence and  took  care  that  it  should  increase.  Just  a 
little  below  her  as  she  rose  in  power  her  husband 
ascended  like  the  basket  of  a  balloon,  but  he  thought, 
as  every  basket  under  every  balloon  thinks,  "  How 
magnificently  I  rise."  It  was  a  great  satisfaction  to 
her  to  give  advice  upon  the  situation  between  Essen 
and  Berlin,  to  dabble  in  the  corn  question,  and  even 
to  soil  her  fingers  in  the  muddy  waters  of  interminis- 


BERLIN  171 

terial  affairs.  She  never  made  the  mistake  of  discus- 
sing politics,  and  never  gave  any  opinion  on  political 
matters  unless  she  was  asked  for  it,  but  she  was  often 
asked.  Her  other  opinions  she  poured  out  gratuitously 
and  occasionally  rather  ferociously.  Her  favorite 
ideas  were  those  connected  with  economy  and  the 
sexes. 

Upon  a  particular  evening  she  gave  a  music  party 
at  her  Berlin  palace  in  order  to  encourage  society  to 
admire  a  young  man  whom  she  had  recently  discovered 
at  Leipsic  and  brought  to  Berlin,  and  whom  she  de- 
termined to  exhibit  after  sending  him  to  the  best  tailor 
and  flattering  him  into  the  best  humor.  The  "  Ard- 
stein  Genius,"  as  Martin  von  Schuler  found  himself 
called,  had  delivered  himself  over  entirely  into  her 
hands;  she  managed  his  affairs  for  him,  engaged  him 
a  secretary,  lodged  him  at  her  house,  and  built  him 
at  his  expense  an  art  villa  in  the  Black  Forest,  upon 
the  shores  of  a  small  lake.  Although  he  allowed  the 
Countess  to  order  his  life,  Martin  felt  free  again.  His 
successful  light  opera,  "  The  Coquettes,'*  had  given 
him  money  and  introduced  him  to  the  world.  His 
second  opera,  "  The  Saddest  Singer,"  had  been  a  wild 
success  both  at  Leipsic  and  in  Berlin.  It  was  the  es- 
sence of  light-hearted  gayety  and  love.  He  had  grown 
up  upon  it  and  come  to  think  himself  one  of  the  men 
of  the  day.  He  had  no  friend,  nor  did  he  want  one; 
friends  were  a  dependency  and  a  clog;  what  he  wished 


172  MARTIN  SCHULER 

for  were  friendly  acquaintances  towards  whom  he 
need  have  no  obligations.  Above  all  things  his  free- 
dom was  most  precious  to  him;  he  required  nobody 
who  would  at  all  deprive  him  of  it.  He  did  not  de- 
sire to  enter  again  the  dark  forest  of  passion,  nor  to 
have  again  the  experience  of  cutting  himself  loose 
from  an  octopus,  for  it  was  thus  that  the  escape  from 
an  unequal  love  presented  itself  to  him. 

The  music  party  was  held  in  the  gilt  and  blue 
reception-room  of  the  Ardstein's  large  residence; 
cupids  sported  among  the  clouds  and  plaster  work  of 
the  high  ceiling,  from  which  descended  chandeliers 
sparkling  with  a  thousand  drops  of  glass  that  looked 
like  fountains  arrested  in  their  play  by  a  magic  wand. 
Above  the  doors  and  in  the  alcoves  cupids  danced 
among  tambourines,  harps,  flutes,  French  horns,  and 
kettledrums  heaped  upon  rolling  clouds  entwined  with 
ribbons,  as  if  the  angels  had  created  there  a  dust-heap 
of  musical  instruments  in  favor  of  the  more  modern 
gramophone  and  player-piano.  Martin  Schiiler,  who 
had  never  appreciated  any  form  of  decoration  more 
lovely  than  the  interior  of  an  opera  house,  felt  at  home 
in  this  music-room  with  the  exquisitely  colored  and 
appropriate,  if  rather  foolish,  French  mural  decora- 
tions. The  long  mirrors  above  the  consoles,  the  ormolu 
clock  and  tables,  the  looped  blue  damask  curtains, 
gave  him  great  pleasure.  There  was  nothing  he  liked 
so  much  in  nature  as  the  blue  sky  and  the  setting  sun 


BERLIN  173 

and  flowers,  or  in  art  so  much  as  the  pretty,  the  taste- 
fully gaudy,  and  the  voluptuous. 

The  Countess  wafted  about  among  her  friends  like 
a  witch  en  a  broomstick.  She  did  not  believe  in 
crowded  parties.  To-night  she  had  caused  to  be  writ- 
ten on  the  programmes,  ''  As  a  friend  with  a  friend," 
for  she  decided  that  it  would  be  better  for  Martin  to 
meet  her  acquaintances  in  a  beam  of  intimate  sun- 
shine. Accordingly  there  were  scarcely  more  than 
thirty  people  present  to  hear  Polinski,  who  was  the 
only  performer  of  the  evening,  play.  Amongst  them 
was  Baron  von  Hirchner,  the  Minister  of  Finance,  a 
broad  man  of  forty-five,  at  least  six  foot  three  inches 
in  height.  His  wife  Beda  was  there  also,  but  not 
with  him:  she  was  fifteen  years  his  junior  and  pre- 
ferred men  of  her  own  age,  such  as  Konstanz,  the  cari- 
caturist, who  sat  with  her  now  in  an  alcove.  Hirch- 
ner himself  was  fonder  of  Countess  von  Ardstein 
than  of  anybody.  They  knew  each  other's  secret  lives. 
His  tender  emotions,  however,  belonged  to  Countess 
Sophie  von  Sebaltz,  who  was  the  most  beautiful  young 
married  woman  in  Berlin.  She  had  been  married  four 
years,  ever  since  she  was  eighteen,  and  was  the  wife 
of  a  noble  whom  she  had  endowed  with  suflficient 
wealth  to  allow  him  the  pleasures  of  the  lion-chase  in 
Africa.  She  got  as  much  sport  out  of  her  life  as  he 
did,  and  infinitely  more  joy.  Her  beautiful  clothes 
were  the  desire  of  everybody;  to-night  she  was  wear- 


174  MARTIN  SCHULER 

ing  a  long  pale  satin  dress  of  a  thin  silhouette,  made 
without  a  single  ornament,  with  a  trailing  cape  of  blue 
satin  falling  from  one  shoulder  upon  the  floor.  She 
had  a  string  of  pearls  round  her  neck  and  pearls  in 
her  ears.  She  might  have  lived  in  any  land  at  any 
time.  Her  dark  hair  and  eyes  gave  her  a  Spanish 
look,  her  mouth  was  a  little  Victorian,  her  chin  was 
decided  and  Teutonic,  her  skin  also  had  the  immobile 
pallor  of  Central  Europe,  it  was  of  the  palest  cream. 
Her  cheeks  blushed  with  the  pink  of  roses  and  her 
ears  were  like  those  pale,  nail-pink  shells  common 
upon  the  seashore.  Her  brows,  her  arms,  her  figure 
w^re  lovelier  than  those  of  any  princess.  Her  hands 
were  like  a  china  shepherdess's  and  her  feet  beautiful 
and  correctly  proportioned.  She  had  all  those  attri- 
butes so  long  associated  with  the  fairest  heroines,  and 
if  at  times  she  emphasized  her  not  quite  perfect  mouth 
by  dressing  in  frilled  mid- Victorian  garments,  she 
could,  nevertheless,  always  be  the  loveliest  creature 
in  Germany,  the  queen  of  all  young  hearts  in  society. 
Polinski  wandered  about  among  the  guests  as  a 
guest.  The  Countess  von  Ardstein  had  had  to  pay  for 
it.  His  hands  flapped  from  pocket  to  pocket  of  his 
suit.  He  had  always  lost  something,  his  handkerchief 
principally.  He  had  a  diamond  ring  on  his  little  fin- 
ger. Any  one  could  see  that  his  life  had  been  spent  in 
his  hands.  They  might  have  been  called  intensely 
beautiful;  they  appeared  to  be  heavy,  loaded,  so  that 


BERLIN  175 

all  his  movements  culminated  in  them  instead  of  in 
his  brain.  If  possible  he  never  shook  hands  with  any- 
body; he  let  his  hands  fall  heavily  into  the  folds  of 
his  fine  brown  cloth  suit  when  he  met  an  acquaintance 
and  bowed.  Sometimes  he  put  his  hands  under  wo- 
men's when  he  bent  to  kiss  their  fingers,  and  they 
conjured  up  a  whole  series  of  sensations,  chiefly  due 
to  romance  in  their  hearts.  His  face  was  wrinkled, 
with  young  eyes  and  young  hair.  A  mustache  of 
fine  hairs  seemed  to  have  settled  like  dew  on  his  up- 
per lip  and  just  above  his  chin.  He  walked  about 
with  an  air  of  sweetness  and,  perhaps,  of  slight  in- 
sipidity. 

Martin  walked  about  also ;  he  was  the  other  hero — 
the  Countess's  hero.  He  was  aware  of  it,  and  de- 
liberately acted  contrarily  to  Polinski.  He  was  a  man 
of  the  smart  world  to  himself,  not  an  old  virtuoso. 
His  pince-nez  gave  him  the  look  of  a  Viennese  officer, 
but  he  was  not  as  well  corseted  nor  as  slim  as  those 
persons  generally  are.  He  smiled  and  bowed  with 
great  dignity  to  the  charming  people  in  the  room,  and 
raised  himself  in  his  conceit  above  everybody  there. 
The  Countess  gambolled  round  him  and  ran  after 
him,  introducing  him  to  everybody,  impressing  upon 
him  the  advantages  of  speaking  to  Hirchner  and 
Sophie,  to  Konstanz  in  the  second  place,  and  one  or 
two  duller  people  in  the  hijSfher  rank  of  society.  Mar- 
tin had  extraordinarily  well  caught  the  air  of  superior- 


176  MARTIN  SCHULER 

ity  that  acknowledges  the  courtesies  of  human  beings, 
but  abstracts  itself  in  a  moment  to  better  thoughts 
without  waste  of  time. 

Polinski  went  to  the  piano  and  seated  himself  at 
it,  and  the  assembly  grouped  itself  in  a  semi-circle, 
with  Martin  Schiiler  and  Countess  Sophie  in  its  midst, 
as  if  they  were  the  king  and  queen  in  a  cinematograph 
play.  The  people  were  small  for  the  size  of  the  room, 
which  was  lofty  and  wide  enough  for  a  ballroom. 
They  looked  like  a  group  of  moths  and  butterflies 
upon  a  gilt  branch  with  golden  thorns  and  blue  silk 
leaves.  Suddenly  Polinski  smiled  across  the  space  at 
Martin  and  made  him  feel  uncomfortable  by  playing 
out  a  phrase  of  Chopin's  Ballade,  Ta-^^*,  Tsi-ti,  ta-Zf/ta- 
ti-ti-ti,  as  if  he  were  making  a  joke  at  his  expense. 

Everybody  laughed,  except  Hirchner,  who  was  lean- 
ing upon  the  back  of  Martin's  chair  in  order  to  be 
able  to  see  what  might  happen  between  him  and 
Sophie,  for  it  seemed  at  once  obvious  that  they  would 
attract  one  another.  Hirchner  was  prepared  to  make 
a  flight  into  flower-sown  skies  upon  the  wings  of 
good  music,  because  he  adored  music  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world,  and  had  a  passionate  Teutonic 
love  for  soul-stirrings  and  nervous  excitements. 

Polinski  improvised  upon  an  arpeggio  and  resolved 
through  a  dozen  modulations  into  a  series  of  the  pre- 
ludes and  fugues  of  Bach.  Hirchner 's  mind  was  cap- 
tured by  the  antiphonous  beauty  of  the  well-created 


BERLIN  177 

sound.  Martin  forced  himself  to  realize  what  he 
heard.  His  animal  nature  died  in  him,  he  ceased  to 
be  physical,  his  intellect  gave  itself  to  the  succession 
of  phrases.  From  the  animal  he  rose  to  the  human, 
from  the  human  to  the  intellectual,  from  the  intel- 
lectual to  the  absolute.  Sophie  von  Sebaltz,  whose 
mind  was  that  of  an  educated  woman  of  the  world, 
thought  that  Polinski  seemed  a  very  long  way  off, 
so  she  spent  her  time  examining  Martin,  whose  breath- 
ings she  could  hear,  and  looking  at  the  large,  un- 
conscious Hirchner  who  swooned  with  languorous  and 
exquisite  enthusiasms  as  phrase  fell  into  phrase.  She 
saw  Beda  Hirchner  also  carried  away  by  the  music 
and  understood  why  she  had  married  Hirchner.  Kon- 
stanz  also  was  smoking  like  a  quiet  chimney  at  sunset, 
having  his  thoughts  recalled  to  him  probably,  for  in 
some  music  only  rouses  the  pleasant  memories.  When 
Sophie  had  looked  at  all  the  thirty  men  and  women 
in  the  room,  she  returned  to  the  consideration  of 
Martin,  whom  the  rhythmic  ecstasy  of  the  music  was 
filling  with  joy  and  peace.  In  that  moment  he  was 
again  young,  lovely,  and  good.  Goodness  is  a  thing 
not  understood  except  by  those  who  understand  Plato, 
Bach,  and  Martin  Schiiler.  He  lost  himself  in  regions 
where  the  Prince  Errant  of  fairy-tales  seeks  livmg 
water,  and  was  amazed  to  remember  that  there  is 
something  more  exquisite  than  love  or  passion.  He 
knew  that  Bach  had  attained  the  highest  human  pes- 


178  MARTIN  SCHULER 

sibility  by  creating  the  uncontroversial.  He  suffered 
one  of  those  outgoings  uncommon  to  the  human  soul, 
and  was  aware  that  he  went  beyond  the  outgoing 
of  Polinski  or  any  man  in  the  room.  As  for  women, 
they  are  only  sighers  after  departure;  they  yearn  for 
the  impossible  voyages  that  they  only  accomplish  dur- 
ing periods  of  motherhood.  He  became  perfectly  gay. 
The  beauty  of  the  earth  passed  before  his  eyes,  and 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  quiet  of  strifeless  sound 
where  there  is  no  climax  but  only  a  state  of  beauty. 
His  heart  was  soothed  as  if  with  the  rippling  of  wind 
over  a  still  pond. 

Suddenly,  with  a  brilliance  of  execution  rarely 
heard,  Polinski,  as  if  ashamed  of  disclosing  his  so»l 
by  his  Bach  playing,  burst  into  a  Hungarian  rhapsody. 
The  nerves  of  the  listeners  quivered  exquisitely  as  the 
rhapsody  vibrated  through  the  room.  The  rhythmic 
rush,  the  barbaric  insistence,  the  tremulous  accuracy, 
scintillated  like  a  cloud  of  dancing  sequins.  The 
hearts  of  the  hearers  were  lifted  to  a  point  of  atten- 
tion like  the  hearts  of  spectators  in  a  race.  Their 
ears  were  opened  to  the  delicious  translucency  of  a 
myriad  of  little  waves  of  sound  that  followed  one 
another  with  quivering,  shivering  movements. 

It  came  to  an  end.  Beethoven's  sonata,  commonly 
called  the  "  Waldstein,'*  next  gave  them  an  unutterable 
yearning,  and  tears  stood  in  their  eyes. 

"Ah!"   they  thoug'ht,   without   expresising  them- 


BERLIN  179 

selves  save  by  occasional  sighs,  "  how  I  could  rise 
from  the  ground  in  long  leaps,  how  I  could  overcome 
the  waves  with  long  strokes  ^f  swimming,  how  I 
could  glide  low  over  the  breasts  of  hills  on  invisible 
wings."  Hirchner  looked  towards  Sophie  and  thought 
that  he  might  try  to  resuscitate  the  few  sentiments 
they  had  shared  together,  and  his  breath  stirred  her 
hair.  Martin  got  up,  and,  leaving  his  friends,  began 
to  stride  about  the  room  in  godlike  attitudes.  His 
heart  expanded,  his  throat  grew  dry.  Beethoven  al- 
ways had  a  physical  effect  upon  him.  He  seemed  to 
recognize  for  an  instant  something  he  had  felt  before. 

"  Beethoven  was  a  sensualist,"  somebody  said. 

"  Beethoven  was  impassioned,"  somebody  else  said. 

The  long  sonata  of  variations  was  given  with  the 
last  movement  in  cumulative  form  that  shook  the  air 
and  caused  the  chandeliers  to  rattle.  Nobody  was  very 
interested  in  it;  they  were  endeavoring  to  catch  again 
the  sensations  the  "Waldstein"  had  produced  in 
them,  then  they  were  irritated  because  it  was  not  re- 
peated. "  The  best  music  is  the  music  that  appeals  to 
men  over  and  over  again,"  thought  Martin  to  himself 
as  he  recognized  the  notes  streaming  from  the  piano. 
He  began  to  dream  again.  Polinski^s  exquisite  sense 
was  something  worthy  of  his  admiration,  and  he  ad- 
mired it  with  all  his  soul.  He  desired  to  be  played 
to  endlessly. 

A  group  of  arias  was  performed,  and  from  this 


i8o  MARTIN  SCHULER 

agglomeration  of  Bach,  Wagner,  Rubinstein,  Martin 
Schiller,  and  God  knows  whom,  Martin  received  an 
idea  which  he  remembered  several  years  later.  A 
Tschaikovski  waltz,  a  romance  by  some  obscurity  and 
Debussy's  "  Soiree  en  Granade ''  were  so  delightfully 
represented  that  everybody  began  to  dream  of  the 
happy  portions  of  their  youth;  and,  after  that, 
Chopin's  alluring,  worn-out,  played-out,  sensuous  bal- 
lade in  A  flat  that  Polinski  had  hinted  at  earlier  in  the 
evening  made  them  laugh  and  wink  at  one  another 
and  throw  back  their  heads  with  their  tongues  in  their 
cheeks  in  order  to  appreciate  some  gay  and  daring 
memory.  At  the  end  of  it  they  broke  into  such  vio- 
lent applause  that  it  had  to  be  played  again. 

"Aubrey  Beardsley  illustrated  it,"  somebody  said. 

"  Ah,  but  badly ! "  cried  Countess  von  Ardstein. 

"  Yes,"  everybody  assented,  "  he  did  not  get  the 
feeling." 

Martin,  who  knew  nothing  about  Beardsley,  was 
amused  to  see  how  this  light  composition  set  every- 
body gay  and  chattering. 

"  Chopin  was  a  genius,"  he  thought ;  but  by  this  time 
Polinski  was  playing  one  of  Martin's  own  songs.  He 
pronounced  the  subtle  harmonies  with  distinction,  and 
phrased  the  aria  more  nearly  after  the  manner  of 
Martin's  dream  of  it  than  was  common.  Martin  was 
delighted.  He  thought  how  well  he  compared  with 
everybody  else,  but  forgot  to  remember  that  Chopin 


BERLIN  i8i 

had  just  preceded  him.  His  technique,  played  by  a 
master  hand,  was  pure  and  finished;  there  was  no 
pov-erty  or  weakness  of  quality.  He  was  a  musician 
of  a  high  water,  even  when  compared  with  the  classics 
and  semi-classics  of  other  days.  Polinski  ceased  in 
the  middle,  and  said,  "  The  composer  is  the  body,  I 
am  the  spirit,"  and  then  continued  to  the  end  of  the 
song. 

Everybody  became  very  enthusiastic ;  Martin  found 
himself  embraced  by  Polinski,  and  his  hands  shaken 
by  several  other  people.  Polinski  had  had  a  success, 
and  was,  besides,  generous  natured.  "  My  friend," 
he  said,  with  tears  of  enthusiasm  and  exhaustion  in 
his  eyes,  "  I  have  shown  you  where  you  stand  amongst 
the  immortals,  and  you  will  rise;  I  prophesy  that  you 
will  rise  to  the  presidency  of  Parnassus.  Oh,  my 
friend!  you  have  very  wonderful  gifts."  He  let  two 
or  three  tears  run  down  his  face. 

"  My  gifts  are  nothing  to  yours,"  answered  Martin, 
who  was  deeply  moved. 

"Ah!  do  not  blaspheme,"  said  Polinski,  openly 
weeping ;  "  do  not  blaspheme.  Your  harmony !  Your 
delicious  abandon!  You  waste  yourself  on  the  com- 
mon public — no,  you  are  generous — you  diffuse  your- 
self so  that  the  lowest  rejoices  when  it  hears  you.  It 
has  not  been  my  honor  to  salute  so  great  a  man  since 
I  kissed  the  hand  of  my  dead  master,  Brahms !  "  and 
he  kissed  Martin  on  both  cheeks  and  left  the  room. 


i82  MARTIN  SCHULER 

The  soiree  ended. 

"  I  like  Polinski,"  said  Martin  afterwards  to  the 
Countess. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Countess,  *'  I  am  not  surprised.*' 

But  he  liked  Polinski  not  only  because  he  flattered 
him  but  because  he  was  a  musician  and  sought  after^ 
and  Martin  added  snobbishness  to  his  other  vices. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

NOT  long  after  this  musical  affair,  Countess 
von  Ardstein  gave  a  week-end  party  at  her 
country  house,  to  which  she  invited  those  per- 
sons whom  Martin  von  Schiiler  chose  out  of  her  ac- 
quaintance: Sophie  von  Sebaltz,  Hirchner,  Konstanz, 
Lottie  Bischoffheim,  and  one  or  two  other  people.  A 
great  deal  of  riding  and  shooting  took  place.  Sophie 
brought  her  piebald  half-arab.  She  dressed  herself 
to  match  it  in  a  black  coat  and  white  breeches; 
in  her  riding  gear  one  would  have  said  she  was  on 
the  stage.  Martin  himself  had  a  sixteen-hand  bay 
mare,  which  Konstanz  had  induced  him  to  buy.  She 
was  large  and  vicious  and  strong,  without  grace,  but 
with  a  great  deal  of  brute  force.  He  rode  her  in  a 
queer  mixture  of  riding  clothes  and  ordinary  lounge 
garments.  Down  to  his  waist  he  wore  his  ordinary 
navy  blue  clothes,  but  the  lower  half  of  him  was  in 
doeskin  breeches  and  long  black  military  boots  and 
might  have  belonged  to  the  army.  Konstanz  was 
charmed  with  him  and  ran  about  with  him  all  over 
Berlin,  so  that  people  said  they  looked  like  two  dogs 
on  the  same  leash.    Konstanz  decided  that  Martin  had 

183 


i84  MARTIN  SCHULER 

never  been  spoiled  by  what  he  called  life,  and  at 
twenty-seven  was  as  young  and  fresh  as  at  twenty- 
one.  Certainly  he  seemed  to  be  full  of  joy 
and  vitality,  never  to  have  abused  himself  or  to  have 
overtaxed  either  his  mind  or  his  body  in  any  way. 
Again,  the  past  was  all  gone  from  him,  and  the  things 
that  he  had  done  and  suffered  seemed  to  have  vanished 
away  like  clouds  at  sunrise.  Wealth  and  adulation 
agreed  with  his  health,  and  though  at  times  he  suf- 
fered from  what  he  called  nerves,  sciatica,  heart- 
trouble,  and  other  inappropriate  names  for  indiges- 
tion, which  made  his  temper  very  bad,  he  was  magni- 
ficently well  and  merry  most  of  the  time. 

One  evening  in  June,  in  the  dusk  of  a  hot  day, 
Hirchner  sat  talking  to  the  Countess  von  Ardstein  in 
the  smoking-room  that  opened  out  upon  the  piazza. 
Dinner  was  long  since  over,  and  there  remained  but  the 
hours  of  confidential  chat  before  bed-time.  The  Ard- 
steins*  country  house  was  a  pleasant  place  for  friends 
to  say  their  says  in.  One  need  wear  nothing  but  old 
shooting  clothes  all  the  day  and  evening.  The  chairs 
were  all  old,  comfortable,  and  large ;  there  was  no  ele- 
gance, merely  food  and  quietness.  The  wide  win- 
dows all  stood  open,  the  country  dogs  slept  and  snored 
upon  the  floor,  the  dachshunds,  of  which  there  were 
three,  occupied  the  chairs.  The  Countess  was  be- 
loved by  dogs;  she  had  sixteen,  four  of  which  had 
come  to  her  from  unknown  wanderings  upon  the  earth. 


BERLIN  185 

Hirchner,  like  the  dogs,  was  inclined  to  sleep  and  snore 
between  the  conversations.  He  lay  back  in  a  large 
and  comfortable  English  chair,  upholstered  in  red  lea- 
ther, beside  a  small  table  upon  which  were  cherries 
and  kirch-drinks.  He  took  some  cherries  off  the  plate 
and  threw  them  into  his  mouth,  and  spat  the  stones 
out  on  to  the  carpet. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  moving  the  cherries  about  in  his 
mouth,  "  I  like  your  protege." 

"Of  course,"  replied  the  Countess;  "I  never  ex- 
pected you  to  do  anything  else." 

"  But  I  am  curious  to  know,"  he  went  on,  "  what 
particular,  what  identical  thing  caused  you  to  take  him 
up,  to  spend  so  much  on  him." 

The  Countess  lifted  her  eyebrows  a  little,  and  began 
to  ferret  in  her  bag  for  some  handkerchief  or  other, 
which  came  out  rather  the  worse  for  the  chase,  at- 
tached to  a  silver  vinaigrette.  She  behaved  as  if  she 
were  blind,  due  to  the  vanity  of  foregoing  glasses, 
which  she  ought  to  have  worn. 

"Of  course  you  know  about  that  girl  of  his." 

"  You  have  told  me."  Hirchner  settled  himself  fur- 
ther down  into  his  chair. 

"And  now  I  am  so  glad  he  has  taken  a  fancy  to 
this  Sophie  creature,  whom,  by  the  way,  I  suppose 
you  were  fond  of,  but  then  it  was  not  serious,  and 
why  not  you  as  well  as  everybody  else.  She  is  a  beau- 
tiful girl.    She  is  light  enough,  she  will  not  corrode 


i86  MARTIN  SCHtJLER 

his  fancy.  Imagine,  my  dear  man,  imagine.  He  was 
there  baking  to  death  in  the  ardor  of  her  smile/' 

"Mademoiselle  Rosenstein's,  you  mean?" 

"  Baum !  Baum !  "  cried  the  Countess ;  "  Hella  von 
Rosenbaum.  She  was  killing  him  with  an  ideal,  at 
least  that  is  my  notion.  She  walked  about  after  him 
like  a  leech  and  kept  her  eyes  pouring  adoration  upon 
him.  The  lad  could  not  move  without  her  moving 
or  think,  I  believe,  without  her  thinking  after  him." 

"And  yet,"  said  Hirchner,  "his  fancy  seems  to 
have  produced  this  charmingest  of  light  operas,  and 
it  seems  to  me  she  was  a  very  devoted  young  woman 
with  a  fine  idea  of  love." 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  said  the  Countess ;  "  she  had  the  genius 
of  love,  but  she  wore  his  heart  out  by  encircling  it 
with  her  arms.  That  is  not  the  identical  reason,  as 
you  call  it." 

"  Well  ?  "    Hirchner  took  and  clipped  a  cigar. 

"  Leipsic  is  not  Berlin,  Humbert." 

"  To  cosmopolitanize  him,"  muttered  Hirchner 
through  a  new  mouthful  of  cherries;  "I  do  not  like 
this  centralization,  this  immense  inmoving  tendency." 

The  Countess  herself  took  a  cherry  and  ate  all 
around  it  so  as  not  to  detach  the  stone  from  the  stalk. 
"  Cosmopolitanization  is  surely  the  other  way." 

"  All  women  want  to  give  men  heaven  or  earth. 
It  is  so,  by  God!  "  growled  the  Baron,  grovelling  with 
his  left  hand  over  the  arm  of  his  chair  after  two  cher- 


BERLIN  187 

ries  that  had  got  lost  in  the  mat.  "Let  the  grass- 
widow  have  him." 

"I  am  not  a  fool,"  yapped  the  Countess;  "I  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him  now  I  have  got  him  away 
from  that  miserable  life."  She  chose  a  bunch  of 
three  cherries  growing  together,  but  one  of  them  was 
malformed  and  unripe,  so  she  chose  another  three  of 
more  equal  beauty.  Hirchner's  huge  form  moved 
creakingly  in  the  chair,  conveying  the  absurd  little  red 
fruits  from  the  plate  to  his  mouth,  and  the  darkness 
that  was  never  really  dark  all  night  gathered  about 
the  room  in  vague  clouds.  The  mountain  of  cherries 
decreased. 

"  I  have  eaten  a  great  many  cherries,  I  think  too 
many,"  he  said,  pushing  the  plate  away  from  him  an 
inch,  but,  like  most  people  who  are  fond  of  eating, 
he  forgot  next  minute  what  he  had  said  and  continued 
to  demolish  the  mountain. 

"  It  is  a  pity  we  are  no  longer  young,  Katchen/* 
he  said,  thinking  of  Martin,  who  he  knew  was  in 
the  garden  with  Sophie,  and  of  Lottie  and  Konstanz 
— for  Konstanz  liked  her  equally  with  Beda — who 
were  joking  in  the  card-room. 

"  Those  were  very  tiresome  days,"  replied  the 
Countess;  "how  glad  I  am  I  have  never  to  pass 
through  the  tedium  of  experience  again.  Humbert, 
I  am  glad  I  am  old." 

Humbert  sighed.     "  I  do  not  feel  old.     I  wonder 


i88  MARTIN  SCHULER 

why  I  have  never  changed  since  I  was  a  child — why 
I  never  seem  to  learn  anything  to  do  with  the  game  of 
life,  to  be  as  great  a  fool  as  ever.  I  understand  the 
technique  and  all  that,  but  I  am  equally  puzzled  by 
each  new  principle  I  meet.  I  am  always  discovering 
that  everything  is  new  under  the  sun." 

Hirchner  ceased  speaking  and  roused  himself  to 
drink. 

After  he  had  relapsed  into  his  chair,  Martin  ap- 
peared at  the  window.  Both  the  Countess  and  Hirch- 
ner were  impressed  by  his  atmosphere  of  preoccupa- 
tion, and  the  strong  disturbance  that  his  concentration 
made  in  the  air  of  the  room.  He  seemed  to  have  been 
running — to  be  waiting  to  run  again. 

"  Have  some  cherries,"  said  the  finance  minister. 

"  No,"  said  Martin,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  a 
far  part  of  the  garden,  "  cherries — no,  I  do  not 
think  so." 

"  Do  you  love  her  ?  "  said  Hirchner,  like  a  father  to 
his  eighteen-year-old  son;  "  do  you  find  her  as  beauti- 
ful and  as  pleasing  as  you  ought?  " 

Martin  felt  insulted  a  little,  but  he  gave  what  he 
thought  was  the  best  answer. 

**  She  is  in  the  garden." 

Hirchner  leaned  forward.  "Is  she?"  He  hoped 
he  might  be  able  to  see  her  from  that  position,  but 
he  could  not.  Martin  raised  a  hand  above  his  head, 
shut  down  his  fingers  as  if  he  were  playing  a  castanet 


BERLIN  189 

and  at  the  same  time  imitated  the  clack  of  it  with  his 
mouth.    He  let  his  arm  fall,  saying  sternly : 

"I  love  her!" 

He  was  standing  on  the  top  step  of  the  piazza  with 
his  back  against  tV"-  window  post.  Suddenly  his  heart 
leaped  in  him  and  he  thought,  "  I  am  here  amongst 
these  high-bred  people."  For  an  instant  he  acknow- 
ledged an  inferiority  to  society,  and  then,  looking  at 
Hirchner's  six-foot  body  and  the  Countess's  little  one 
out  of  the  comer  of  his  eye,  felt  infinitely  superior. 
He  was  humble  before  his  idea  of  society,  but  in  so- 
ciety itself  he  found  himself  very  much  more  remark- 
able than  the  general  herd,  for,  after  all,  it  consists 
only  of  ordinary  people  decorated  by  environment. 
The  quiet  of  evening  came  over  the  woody  enclosure 
that  was  called  the  garden,  and  all  the  happy  ideas  of 
love  and  peace  filled  Martin's  soul.  The  beauty  of  a 
thousand  and  one  stage  nights  pervaded  the  small 
world  that  he  could  see,  with  its  romance,  its  low- 
hung  moon,  its  dark  shadows.  The  nightingale  cried 
plaintively  and  long  through  the  deep  blue  air,  and  the 
sweet  scents  of  cedars  and  hay-grass,  night  stocks, 
and  old-fashioned  roses  came  up  from  the  dewy 
ground. 

"  Why  have  you  left  her?  "  said  the  Countess  after 
a  long  pause. 

Martin  pretended  not  to  hear  her,  for  he  could  not 
very  well  reply,  "  We  are  playing  hide  and  seek,  or 


I90  MARTIN  SCHULER 

hunt  the  girl,  or  wild  men  of  the  woods/*  because  he 
was  twenty-seven  and  not  ingenuous. 

"  Incomparably  indiscreet/'  said  Hirchner,  half- 
asleep,  as  he  fell  back  into  his  chair,  but  nobody  heard 
him  or  knew  to  what  he  referred. 

"  We  are  all  catching  our  own  fleas,"  thought  the 
Countess,  upon  whom  the  stage  effect  of  the  window 
and  the  moon  had  begun  to  dawn. 

Hirchner  also  was  dreaming  of  the  isolation  of 
human  beings;  he  wished  everybody  was  happy  and 
that  they  would  all  join  together  at  something. 

Presently  Martin  went  away  off  the  piazza  to  re- 
new his  game,  this  time  more  seriously  for  he  had 
fallen  straight  into  love  during  his  rest  at  the  window. 

"  What  are  they  doing  ?  "  said  the  Countess,  when 
he  had  gone. 

"Why  should  I  know? — playing  the  incomparable 
game  of  catch-as-catch-can,"  said  Hirchner,  from 
whose  mouth  rings  of  blue  smoke  were  ascending. 
The  repose  of  the  beautiful  end  of  day  was  wrapping 
itself  over  the  chairs  and  animals  and  round  the  two 
people.  Hirchner  lay  at  full  length  in  his  chair  and 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  everything  to  do  with  finance 
and  the  military.  He  began  to  murmur  to  the  Countess 
from  under  his  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  Wonderful,  is  it  not  wonderful,  for  ever  and  ever 
wonderful !  "  His  virility  and  the  huge  power  of  his 
animal  personality  were  at  rest. 


BERLIN  191 

The  Countess  sighed  and  moved  her  hands  to  a 
different  position,  and  the  dachshunds  sigfhed  and 
wagged  their  tails  under  the  dream  of  her  caress. 

*'  A  night  for  lovers,"  murmured  the  tender  Min- 
ister of  Finance.  "  But  indeed  money  and  war,  slav- 
ery and  cruelty,  would  never  exist  but  for  men.  The 
earth  is  ever  so  forbearing  with  us.  Why  does  she 
not  ask  the  sea  to  leave  its  bed  and  smother  us  with 
pillows  of  foam?  " 

The  Countess  sighed  again,  and  again  was  echoed 
by  the  responsive  dachshunds. 

"  Ah  me !  "  continued  the  baron ;  "  and  this  young 
man,  what  is  he  doing  with  himself,  what  is  he  going 
to  do!  He  has  earned  riches.  T  feel  a  wonderful 
sympathy  with  him.  I  love  him  even  as  you  do,  as 
everybody  must.  I  liope,  as  you  hope,  that  he  likes 
me.  When  he  walks  about,  grown  up  and  self-pos- 
sessed, I  am  inclined  to  laugh,  and  yet  I  know  he  is 
my  superior.  In  the  beginning  was  the  Word,  and  the 
Word  was  God — that  is  not  unlike  him.  The  Holy 
Book  we  do  not  read,  Katchen,  is  wonderful,  very 
wonderful.  In  the  beginning  God  created  the  world, 
and  He  said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  He  separated  the 
light  from  the  darkness,  and  the  light  He  called  youth 
and  the  darkness  age.  Remember  thy  Creator  in  the 
days  of  thy  youth,  lest  the  evil  days  come  and  the 
years  when  thou  shalt  say,  '  I  have  no  pleasure  in 
them.'**    He  was  thinking  how  very  sad  for  him  it 


192  MARTIN  SCHULER 

was  not  to  be  young  again  in  order  at  least  to  be  the 
rival  of  Martin  in  the  garden.  "  That  poor  girl  must 
be  tearing  her  heart  out  in  Leipsic,'*  he  added. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Countess ;  "  I  feel  very  sorry 
for  her,  but  men  and  genius  first.  Imagine,  if  you 
have  any  imagination,  how  she  killed  him  by  absorbing 
him." 

"  I  am  incredibly  pleased  he  writes  light  opera," 
said  Hirchner ;  "  it  is  the  most  human,  the  most  happy, 
the  most  enjoyable  thing  in  the  world."  He  began  to 
hum  one  of  Martin's  airs. 

*'Yes,"  said  the  Countess,  whose  thoughts  saw 
Martin  chasing  Sophie  among  the  dark  trees ;  "  I  find 
it  hard  to  think  that  he  wrote  that;  all  music  is  as- 
tounding. Why  think  in  tunes — who  does  ?  I  do  not, 
nor  do  you." 

"  Astounding,"  said  the  minister  softly.  "  I  do  not 
believe  he  is  altogether  happy."  He  made  this  remark 
hoping  that  this  was  the  case,  for  he  felt  a  little  jealous 
of  all  the  gifts  of  fate  to  Martin  Schuler. 

"  You  are  right,"  the  Countess  sighed ;  "  he  has  been 
serious  and  grown  up  till  I  brought  him  into  the  pretty 
world  here." 

"  Oh,  yes,  oh,  yes,  of  course  you  are  his  fairy  god- 
mother!" 

After  an  interval,  during  which  the  sleep  of  twilight 
gave  way  to  the  wakefulness  of  night,  the  Countess 
got  up  and  went  to  the  window, 


BERLIN  193 

"I  can  see  them,"  she  said;  "he  has  just  caught 
and  kissed  hen" 

Hirchner  rose  off  his  chair  and  yawned  with  his 
arms  raised  above  his  head  so  that  they  nearly  touched 
the  ceiling. 

"  Damnation  of  damnations !  "  he  said  slowly;  "  you 
are  perfectly  right — he  is  kissing  her  again,  and  now, 
there,  she  is  kissing  him."  It  was  hard  to  say  how 
he  could  discriminate  between  the  actions.  "  Come 
let  us  shut  the  window  and  go  in.  Venus  has  capitu- 
lated and  now  Adonis  will  carry  her  off  into  the 
woods,  or  is  it  Endymion  and  his  moon?  Have  you 
seen  Paris  in  red  hose  run  off  with  the  gilt  and  white 
Helen?" 

"Your  fantasies,"  said  the  Countess,  shaking  her 
fingers  loosely,  as  if  she  were  scattering  dewdrops; 
"  how  absurd !  your  fantasies !  " 

Hirchner  gently  shut  the  window  as  he  continued 
speaking:  "Or  the  blue  delphinium  hurry  the  white 
butterfly  to  his  lips,  or  why  not  say  Martin  von  Schiiler 
with  the  loveliest  woman  in  Berlin.  It  is  all  the  same, 
my  heart  is  absolutely  captivated:  I  have  a  mind  to 
weep." 

"  Crocodile's  tears,"  said  the  Countess,  whose  own 
sentimental  feelings  forbade  her  to  sympathize  with 
those  of  the  six-foot  financier.  She  turned  and  went 
away  out  of  the  room,  but  Hirchner,  whose  life  on 
one  side  was  limited  by  his  work,  and  on  the  other  by 


194  MARTIN  SCHULER 

the  purest  animal  sensations  which  occasionally  gave 
him  an  insight  into  intellectual  truth,  stood  still  and 
gently  opened  the  window  again  to  be  tossed  a  little 
upon  the  radiating  waves  of  romance  that  spread 
through  the  garden. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

KONSTANZ  leaned  against  the  buffet  of  his 
dining-room  shaking  a  cocktail.  He  affected 
a  great  many  Americanisms  in  such  matters  as 
boots,  drinks,  and  hats.  He  loved  anything  absurd 
and  up-to-date.  Having  spent  his  early  years  admir- 
ing Wilde  and  Beardsley,  now  that  he  was  thirty  he 
turned  his  attention  to  Uncle  Sam,  to  Yankeeism,  and 
to  Boston.  "  Boston  "  and  "  colossal  "  were  his  fav- 
orite words,  just  as  the  favorite  words  of  Hirchner 
were  "  wonderful,"  and  "  for  ever."  He  now  raised 
his  cocktail  shaker  to  his  ear  to  listen  to  the  condi- 
tion of  the  ice.  Apparently  it  was  satisfactory,  for 
he  poured  out  the  contents  into  a  glass  and  drank 
them  off.  Then  he  hastily  pulled  on  some  wash-leather 
gloves,  and  seizing  a  hat  and  stick  that  lay  upon  the 
dining  table,  ran  to  the  lift  and  was  conveyed  to  the 
ground  floor. 

He  jumped  into  the  first  taxi  that  came  along,  and 
throwing  himself  into  a  corner,  began  to  read  with 
great  speed  a  further  account  of  the  Steinheil  murder. 

In  five  minutes  he  was  at  his  destination,  the  palace 
of  the  Ardsteins,  near  Unter  den  Linden.    He  bounded 

195 


196  MARTIN  SCHULER 

out  of  the  taxi  and  ran  up  the  stairs  to  the  quarter  as- 
signed to  Martin  von  Schiiler.    A  servant  let  him  in. 

Wolf,  the  secretary,  was  writing  in  the  large  outer 
room.  He  got  up  directly  Konstanz  arrived  and 
faded  away,  murmuring  that  Herr  von  Schiiler  would 
be  disengaged  in  the  space  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  sit  in  a  chair  and  re- 
read the  paper  or  stand  on  one  leg  and  look  at  the 
room.  Konstanz  preferred  standing  to  sitting,  so  he 
went  from  one  part  of  the  chamber  to  the  other, 
minutely  examining  every  object  in  it. 

Martin  moved  in  sumptuous  circles;  the  poor  for 
him  did  not  exist,  ihe  second  floor  of  an  hotel  was 
to  him  a  garret  whence  issued  those  English-speaking 
tourists  who  have  adopted  the  world  and  who  stare 
as  if  to  say,  "  Who  are  these  coarse,  fat  people  in  our 
restaurant  ?  '*  The  houses  in  the  suburbs  and  second- 
rate  quarters  of  Berlin  caused  him  to  feel  reminis- 
cently  sick  of  his  Leipsic  experiences.  The  summer- 
house  of  the  Ardsteins,  which  had  formerly  been  their 
only  home,  was  as  near  as  he  got  to  the  shabby  com- 
fort of  most  of  the  world,  but  even  there  everything 
had  an  air  of  refined  age.  The  sofas  were  baronial, 
the  chairs  and  tables  belonged  to  the  natural  surround- 
ings of  countesses  and  minor  princesses. 

He  himself  lived  in  the  superb  flat  which  he  rented 
from  the  Countess  von  Ardstein.  His  bedroom  was 
fit  for  an  emperor,  and  he  was  glad,  because  luxury 


BERLIN  197 

made  him  happier  than  anything  else  in  the  world.    He 
took  for  granted  all  his  surroundings :  the  mahogany- 
bed,  with  brass  motifs  of  the  first  Empire  under  a 
blue  silk  canopy,  the  carmine  silk  bed-cover,  the  ex- 
quisite linen,  sheets,  the  fur  blankets.    He  never  asked 
himself  if  things  could  have  been  otherwise,  if  his 
mattress  might  have  been  straw  or  his  floor  bare 
boards.     He  never  questioned  the  condition  of  any 
place  into  which  his  life  led  him.    All  houses,  chairs, 
and  tables  seemed  a  part  of  nature  and — created  or 
uncreated,  he  cared  not  which — to  have  had  the  origin 
and  suffered  the  history  of  the  world  itself.     The 
Countess  von  Ardstein  seemed  to  have  indulged  in  the 
furnishing  of  his  apartments  that  side  of  her  nature 
which  is  common  to  humanity  and  whose  only  expres- 
sion is,  "HI  had  carte  blanche  and  such-and-such  an 
amount  of  money,  I  would  furnish  a  suite  of  rooms 
thus."    She  went  to  the  utmost  limits  of  the  large  sum 
of  money  that  she  asked  Martin  for,  if  not  a  little 
beyond  them.     She  contrasted  the  voluptuousness  of 
his  night  apartment  with  the  costly  simplicity  of  the 
day-rooms.    The  table  of  black  ebony  in  the  study  was 
a  replica  of  an  Italian  altar.    The  black  bronze  lamp 
by  whose  light  he  wrote  was  a  masterpiece  of  the 
modem  Cellini,  Gregory  Comino.     The  fireplace  in 
black  basalt  was  by  the  same  master.     Its  pure  and 
severe  proportions  were  relieved  by  nothing  save  by 
one  black  classic  vase  placed  immovably  upon  the  left 


I9g  MARTIN  SCHULER 

end  of  the  mantelshelf  in  order  to  frustrate  the  inart- 
istic fingers  of  the  maids,  and  filled  with  a  collection 
of  wax  flowers  arranged  to  recall  Dutch  flower  paint- 
ings. A  black  carpet  of  tapestry  worked  with  flower- 
bunches  partly  covered  the  floor,  and  upon  the  obscure 
walls  hung  three  pictures  two  by  Rubens  and  one  by 
Titian,  whose  colors  kept  Martin's  eyes  fixed  upon 
them  for  hours,  for  he  was  a  prey  to  red  and  orange 
and  sky-blue,  and  to  the  richness  of  luxurious  forms 
of  art.  There  was  no  other  furniture  in  the  room  but 
one  black  empire  chair  upholstered  in  cherry-colored 
silk  to  match  the  long  straight  curtains  at  the  window. 
It  was  not  a  large  room,  and  the  ceiling  was  high,  but 
nevertheless  it  gave  no  idea  of  being  an  uncompromis- 
ing box  or  a  passage  room,  although  it  was  the  only 
means  of  communication  between  his  bedroom  and  the 
sitting-room.  His  sitting-room  was  larger  than  either 
his  bedroom  or  his  study,  and  the  ceiling  appeared  to 
be  lower.  It  had  in  it  a  modern  picture  of  Spanish 
peasants  by  Alexander  Basilikoff,  a  Polish  gipsy,  typi- 
cal of  the  modern  continental  feeling.  Broad  propor- 
tions, vermilion,  cobalt,  black,  emerald  green,  chest- 
nut complexions,  flatness  and  stupidity  of  feature,  such 
were  the  characteristics  of  the  picture  which  dominated 
the  room.  The  room  was  dark,  almost  black;  the 
walls  and  ceiling  were  covered  with  large  panels  of 
heavily  smoked  Spanish  leather  that  had  been  lightly 
polished.     The  junctions  of  the  panels  were  made 


BERLIN  199 

with  narrow  slats  of  mahogany.  Golden  curtains  radi- 
ated the  light  into  this  imposing  gloom  from  two  high 
windows,  and  reflected  themselves  in  the  polish  of  the 
leather  and  mahogany  chairs  and  the  Chippendale  din- 
ing-table.  At  night  the  room  was  lit  by  a  Spanish 
center  candelabrum  that  carried  forty  candles,  and  by 
small  electric  lamps  placed  about  the  room.  The 
fireplace  was  a  large  square  hole  in  the  wall,  on  a 
level  with  the  floor.  Above  it  was  fixed  as  a  panel  the 
Basilikoff  production.  No  frames,  cornices,  or  shelves 
marred  the  beautiful  lines  of  this  room.  Martin  dis- 
liked this  picture;  he  said  it  disturbed  conversations, 
but  he  never  supposed  that  it  could  be  taken  away.  The 
only  addition  he  made  to  his  room  was  a  convex  mir- 
ror;  a  convex  mirror  was  to  him  the  height  of  pleasure, 
for  the  eye,  perhaps,  if  he  had  been  candid,  his  notion 
of  perfect  beauty.  He  sat  for  hours  drinking  wine 
with  his  friends  and  watching  their  movements  accu- 
rately reflected  in  the  convex  glass.  In  it  his  room 
assumed  a  mystery  and  became  something  beside  the 
ordinary:  a  comparative  criticism  perhaps.  As  he 
gazed  at  it  from  amongst  a  dozen  faces  his  sense  of 
the  aesthetic  was  roused  by  the  reflected  atmosphere  of 
the  dark  room,  profound  and  strange,  enhanced  by 
the  glitter  of  candle-light,  by  the  whiteness  of  the 
tablecloth  and  the  men's  linen,  by  human  faces 
and  hands,  by  miniature  reflections  of  bright 
flowers. 


200  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Konstanz  stood  looking  at  the  mirror.  He  leaned 
against  the  dining-table  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  won- 
dered why  values  were  rendered  so  much  more  clearly 
in  a  diminishing-glass  than  in  nature.  He  felt  that 
Hogarth  and  one  or  two  of  the  Flemish  painters  must 
have  painted  out  of  a  glass. 

Presently  Martin  came  out  of  the  study  with  a  hat 
and  stick  in  his  hand  like  Konstanz.  Konstanz  spun 
round  and  said: 

"  I  bet  my  caricature  of  Steinheil  you  are  off  to  a 
house  in  Friedrichsvorstadt." 

"  No,"  said  Martin,  "  I  am  waiting  here  till  she 
comes  for  me." 

"  I  am  colossally  jealous." 

Martin  laughed.  "  I  always  prefer  men  to  women 
and  women  to  men." 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  when  Venus  is  in  the  ascendency  I  am  in 
love — I  like  women  best — but  at  other  times  I  prefer 
men." 

A  rustle  was  heard  outside  the  door,  and  in  a 
moment  Sophie  von  Sebaltz  came  in  dressed  in  the 
most  charming  clothes  to  go  shopping. 

She  greeted  both  men  merrily,  giving  a  hand  to 
each,  and  Konstanz  hoped  she  would  ask  him  to  go 
shopping  too. 

"  Why  not  all  go  shopping  ?  "  she  said,  "  and  you 
shall  see  how  women  throw  away  money  on  clothes 


BERLIN  201 

in  order  to  please  you,  and  what  a  business  it  is  being 
pretty." 

"  You  are  always  pretty,  anywhere,"  said  Martin  ; 
and  Konstanz  tried  to  think  of  a  smart  compliment 
to  pay,  but  allowed  a  second  too  many  to  elapse  before 
it  came  into  his  mind. 

They  went  down  the  stairs  together,  Konstanz 
a  little  behind  like  an  intelligent  dog,  and  trying  to 
push  his  way  forward  into  the  intimate  company  of 
the  most  sought  after  couple  in  Berlin. 

They  went  to  a  parade  of  models  where  he  amused 
them  by  playing  the  clown,  and  with  silly  remarks 
caused  their  happiness  to  escape  in  peals  of  laughter. 

"You  dear  thing;  you  are  so  funny,"  said  Sophie. 
"  I  think  he  is  the  amusingest  creature,  don't  you, 
Martin?" 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Martin  very  gravely ;  "  and 
you  are  the  most  precious,  the  most  sweet  woman  on 
the  earth." 

They  pleased  themselves  by  buying  her  the  dress 
she  preferred  amongst  all  those  that  were  shown  to 
her,  and  she  promised  to  give  them  a  dinner  in  it  at 
her  house  with  nobody  else  there.  Konstanz  gave 
her  also  a  jewelled  amber  cigarette  holder,  and  Martin 
bought  her  a  case  to  match,  and  they  drove  back  to 
tea  at  his  rooms  in  a  car  filled  with  boxes  and  flowers 
and  jokes  and  noise  and  jpreneral  amiability.  This  is 
what  Konstanz  meant  when  he  said  that  life  had  not 


202  MARTIN  SCHULER 

spoiled  Martin  Schuler;  that  one  could  play  at  boys 
and  girls  with  him  without  feeling  forced  or  stupid. 

At  five  o'clock,  after  tea,  Konstanz  went  away  dis- 
creetly and  left  the  lovers  together,  who  became  serious 
directly  they  were  left  alone.  The  whole  of  the  fan- 
tasies and  fripperies  of  life  disappeared,  and  they 
found  themselves  in  the  sweetest  of  passions,  strangers 
to  one  another,  exhilarating  and  exciting,  and  yet  one 
because  they  possessed  each  other.  They  remained 
themselves  and  took  nothing  from  each  other.  They 
gave  one  another  all  the  sensations  of  joy  and  all  the 
light,  stimulating  pleasures  that  neither  destroy  nor 
create  new  souls.  Their  love  was  like  the  notes  of  a 
harp,  like  the  cascades  of  the  fountains  of  Versailles, 
like  the  fluttering  of  beech  leaves  upon  the  trees  in 
May.  They  laughed  and  kissed,  and  were  serious  with 
the  seriousness  of  two  Fragonard  lovers  whose  sur- 
roundings are  silk  and  umbrellas  and  parrots,  black 
boys,  white  maidens,  roses,  and  loves.  Nevertheless, 
Martin  was  only  gay  in  speech  and  thought ;  his  calm, 
dignified  manner,  his  slow  attitudes,  gave  him  still  that 
superiority  which  impressed  the  world  and  made 
Sophie  in  her  heart  afraid  of  him.  She  could  love 
nobody  she  did  not  fear;  she  was  the  archetype  of 
man's  dream  of  womanhood — effeminate,  silver- 
voiced,  and  silver- footed,  with  a  laugh  that  rippled  with 
sensuality  and  eyes  and  lips  always  ready  to  send 
pretty  messages. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  may  well  be  said  that  the  sun  never  sets  on 
the  noise  created  by  the  Cosmopolitan  Gramo- 
phone Company,  whose  offices  have  for  years 
been  situated  in  the  Markgrafen  Strasse.  Herr  Boch 
and  Herr  Walcker,  the  proprietors,  kept  up  a  melo- 
dious gyrating  all  over  the  world.  Black  disks  belong- 
ing to  them,  stamped  with  a  little  world  supported  by 
cupids,  spun  round  in  every  country  of  the  globe;  at 
no  time  were  all  at  rest  and  the  earth  quiet.  No 
sooner  had  those  belonging  to  the  garrison  at  Shang- 
hai ceased  revolving  than  those  in  India  began  to  go 
round  like  the  spinning  tops  of  Buddha;  continuously 
they  buzzed  into  noise  round  the  v/orld  after  the 
chariot  of  the  sun  until  the  garrison  officers  at  Shang- 
hai met  again  in  the  smoking-room  of  their  mess. 

Bernard  Steinbach  stood  by  the  window  of  the 
private  room  of  the  company's  offices  on  the  first 
floor  of  their  establishment.  He  had  grown  fatter 
since  the  production  of  "  The  Coquettes,"  almost  four 
years  ago,  his  shoulders  were  a  little  higher,  his  face 
redder,  and  the  cheeks  more  puflFed  out.  He  hardly 
ever  laughed  because  the  action  lifted  his  glasses  off 
his  nose  and  because  he  had  become  grave  since  the 
loss  of  his  illusions. 

203 


204  MARTIN  SCHULER 

He  wore  a  gray  suit  that  was  a  little  tight  for  him, 
and  stood  at  the  window  with  the  knuckles  of  his 
folded  left  hand  resting  upon  his  hip.  In  his  right 
hand  he  held  a  pipe.  He  was  very  troubled  and  vexed 
with  the  idea  of  seeing  Martin  again;  his  mouth 
drooped,  and  trouble  passed  in  shadows  across  his 
brow.  He  stared  down  out  of  the  window  vaguely 
watching  the  passers-by,  and  coursing  shame,  resent- 
ment, and  embarrassment  ran  through  him  and 
brought  the  blood  to  his  face.  He  hardly  moved  at 
all  for  ten  minutes;  most  of  the  time  he  kept  assuring 
himself  that  had  it  not  been  for  the  money  part  of 
the  question,  or  had  the  money  been  less  worth  while, 
he  would  never  have  come  near  Martin  again.  He 
had  to  assure  himself  of  it  however. 

The  yellow  autumn  sunlight  shone  on  the  tops  of 
the  buildings  opposite,  for  it  was  nearly  half -past  four 
of  an  early  October  afternoon. 

Herr  Walcker  came  in;  he  was  tall  and  Prussian, 
with  an  air  of  having  been  close  shaved  about  the 
head  since  infancy.  Steinbach  looked  round  and  said 
by  way  of  greeting,  without  moving  from  the  window : 

"  That  sewing-machine  shop  across  the  road  has 
your  name  on  it." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Walcker  in  a  pale,  highish  voice, 
"  that  is  a  branch  of  the  business ;  my  partner  and 
Friedrich  Cohen  manage  that." 

Steinbach  very  much  desired  to  remain  at  the  win- 


BERLIN  205 

dow  in  order  to  watch  Martin's  arrival,  so  he  went  on 
talking  about  the  branch  firm.  Walcker  was  not  dis- 
pleased to  come  to  the  window  and  enlarge  upon  its 
prosperity. 

"  We  make  corset  machines  principally." 

"  Then  you  know  the  joke  about  the  two  mistresses 
of  Georges  Faber." 

"  I  do  not.  Our  machines  are  used  all  over  the 
world." 

Steinbach  made  no  comment  upon  the  universality 
of  the  "  Bochen "  sewing  machine,  who  owed  her 
name,  as  Walcker  wished  to  explain,  to  the  portman- 
teau of  Boch  and  Cohen.  He  went  on  with  his  story, 
in  which  it  appeared  that  a  French  lady  had  met  a 
German  lady  in  unfortunate  circumstances  under  Fa- 
ber's  roof  and  had  told  her  that  she  was  a  simple- 
minded  creature  pushed  by  accident  into  the  wrong 
kind  of  corsets. 

Walcker  laughed,  and  then  hurried  to  explain  the 
pretty  idea  of  the  trade-name  of  Herr  Boch's  little 
jewel,  for  Walcker  had  all  the  worst  vices  and  mental 
attitudes  of  the  over-assistant  of  a  hosiery  department. 

A  large  car  stopped  in  front  of  the  house  and  Stein- 
bach put  his  head  out  of  the  window  like  a  detective. 
The  effort  made  him  redder  than  ever.  He  saw  a 
smart  man  in  a  navy  blue  suit  and  a  blue  Homburg 
hat  get  out  of  the  car  followed  by  a  commonplace 
looking  individual  in  a  rough  gray  overcoat  and  tan 


2o6  MARTIN  SCHULER 

gloves.  The  man  in  blue  looked  like  a  very  smart 
edition  of  Martin  Schiller.  He  seemed  to  have  the  same 
shoulders  and  the  same  walk.  What  were  his  senti- 
ments as  he  crossed  the  pavement,  or  those  as  he  came 
upstairs  through  the  show-rooms?  He  evidently  did 
not  intend  to  meet  Steinbach  alone  since  he  had  brought 
a  chaperon.  Steinbach  waited,  answering.  "Yes, 
yes,"  not  without  irritation,  to  the  pompous  trade  de- 
scriptions of  Walcker.  Schiiler  seemed  very  slow.  He 
must  be  looking  at  all  the  photographs  of  the  singers 
upon  the  walls,  some  of  whom  were  probably  his 
friends.  Steinbach's  patience  was  not  great,  but  his 
obstinacy  did  very  well  to  make  up  for  it.  He  was 
always  obstinate  for  a  plan  or  for  an  advantage,  in 
spite  of  every  delay,  and  people  said  that  he  had  the 
patience  of  Job,  but  this  was  not  the  case.  He  had 
got  over  his  sentiments  and  emotions  some  time  ago 
with  regard  to  this  meeting,  at  least  that  was  his 
impression;  but  all  the  same,  when  he  heard  Martin's 
voice  outside  the  door,  and  saw  the  handle  of  the 
door  turn  to  let  him  in  he  was  startled. 

Martin  entered,  handsome  and  smart  and  brave, 
and  good  health,  good  looks,  and  the  attractiveness  of 
one  whom  everybody  spoiled  filled  the  whole  room. 
Steinbach  had  the  feeling  of  struggling  through  several 
hoops  of  paper :  he  was  not  happy. 

"Well,  that  is  you,  Steinbach,"  said  Martin,  ad- 
vancing; "  this  is  my  secretary.  Wolf."    Steinbach  was 


BERLIN  207 

nearly  forced  to  reply  as  he  shook  hands  with  the 
ordinary  creature  Wolf,  "  The  former  secretary  is 
pleased  to  meet  the  present  secretary/'  However,  he 
felt  too  sore  and  uncomfortable  to  say  anything  but 
Good  day.  Martin  suspected  that  his  old  friend's  feel- 
ings towards  himself  were  not  all  good,  and  he  sud- 
denly became  self-conscious,  and,  looking  at  Walcker, 
suggested  that  they  should  turn  their  attention  to 
business. 

Everybody  became  at  once  impersonal,  and  in  half 
an  hour  the  whole  of  the  matter,  which  concerned  cer- 
tain rights  in  gramophone  records  of  "The  Saddest 
Singer,"  were  settled  and  the  necessary  signatures 
made.  No  sooner  was  the  barrier  of  business  taken 
down  than  Wolf  felt  impelled  by  some  force  to  get 
Walcker  into  conversation  outside  the  room,  and 
leave  his  master  with  the  stranger.  The  inevitable 
kept  Martin  Schiiler  from  following  them  out  of  the 
room.  He  found  himself  in  almost  personal  contact 
with  Steinbach.  He  got  up  and  went  to  the  window; 
he  desired  to  say  something  but  he  did  not  know  what. 
He  uttered  the  words,  "  There  is  a  sewing  machine 
shop  opposite." 

"  It  belong^s  to  the  firm/'  answered  Steinbach,  whose 
spirit  was  taken  out  of  him. 

A  silence  followed  that  seemed  to  last  two  years. 

"  It  is  autumn,"  said  Martin  after  a  long  time. 

**  Yes,  the  trees  are  yellow  in  the  country." 


2o8  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Martin  pretended  to  look  at  something  out  of  the 
window;  he  half  wanted  to  laugh,  to  clap  Steinbach 
on  the  back,  to  embrace  him,  to  do  everything  to  show 
how  ridiculous  he  thought  the  situation.  The  serious- 
ness of  embarrassment  did  not  appeal  to  him.  They 
perpetrated  another  pair  of  sentences,  this  time  nearer 
the  thoughts  in  their  hearts. 

"  I  am  fond  of  Berlin." 

"  You  prefer  it  to  Leipsic  ?  " 

This  necessitated  an  answer.  Martin  yawned,  and 
remembered  the  last  scene  they  had  had  in  Leipsic 
over  an  imaginary  corpse  of  Hella,  which  was  more 
violent  on  his  part  than  any  of  the  many  scenes  of 
that  miserable  time  before  his  escape  to  Berlin.  It  was 
a  long  time  since  the  sick  illness  of  violent  temper  had 
come  over  him;  now  he  felt  the  cold  creeping  anger 
come  up  to  his  knees.  It  rose  like  mercury  in  a 
thermometer  suddenly  subjected  to  great  heat.  He 
said  in  a  voice  full  of  the  metallic  sounds  of  cruelty, 

"  Well,  as  you  are  hostile,  so  be  it." 

Steinbach  grew  redder;  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast 
and  he  readjusted  his  arms  upon  the  backs  of  the 
chairs  on  either  side  of  him. 

Martin  had  got  to  the  door.  In  spite  of  the  terrible 
tension  and  of  the  sounds  in  their  ears  of  ugly  ringing 
and  booming  bells,  they  both  had  a  desire  to  make  an 
effort  of  friendship,  but  not  the  will. 

Steinbach  began  to  think  of  nothing  but  Hella,  and 


BERLIN  209 

Martin  looked  at  him  with  a  burning  curiosity  to  know 
his  opinion  of  his  conduct. 

"  It  is  not  desirable  for  me  to  stay,"  said  Martin. 
"There  are  a  thousand  things  I  wish  to  ask  you, 
but,  God  in  hell,  let  them  lie  unasked ! '' 

"  Perfectly,  perfectly,  just  so,"  muttered  Steinbach, 
whose  anger  was  rising  up  to  the  top  of  him,  as  Mar- 
tin's had  done.    "  I  agree  with  you,  I  agree  with  you." 

"  Well,  you  have  made  some  money  off  me  at  any 
rate,"  said  Martin,  not  out  of  smallness  of  mind,  but 
because  he  really  thought  that  this  was  some  consola- 
tion, as  indeed  Steinbach  acknowledged  to  himself  that 
it  was. 

After  that  he  went  with  hesitation  down  to  his  car. 

Steinbach  again  went  to  the  window,  a  sense  of  loss, 
a  slight  despair,  a  vast  consternation  in  his  mind.  Now 
that  the  meeting  was  over  all  those  secret  hopes  that 
he  had  not  admitted  went  through  the  pain  of  being 
extinguished.  All  those  natural  and  human  feelings 
in  connection  with  his  separation  from  Martin  broke 
to  the  surface  for  a  minute,  and  he  found  it  necessary 
to  blow  his  nose  upon  his  large  white  handkerchief. 
In  a  few  seconds  he  adopted  again  the  general  and 
commonplace  view  of  the  actions  of  the  man  he  had 
once  loved,  and  moved  away  from  the  window  in  a 
dreary  and  not  very  satisfactory  state  of  mind. 

Martin  drove  off  into  the  countrv  in  order  to  see  if 
the  frees  were  as  yellow  as  Steinbach  suggested,  anH  in 


210  MARTIN  SCHULER 

order  to  be  alone.  He  sent  Wolf  home  in  the  tram, 
for  he  felt  moody  and  not  altogether  pleased  or  happy 
about  the  idea  he  entertained  that  Steinbach  did  not 
think  well  of  him. 

"  Am  I  bad ?  Am  I  not  good?  Have  I  done  wrong? 
Surely  I  have  not  done  wrong.  I  was  forced  to  act  as 
I  did — I  have  always  been  forced  to  act  as  I  have 
done";  and,  presumably  having  convinced  himself 
that  the  faults  of  his  life  were  due  to  the  actions  of 
others  rather  than  to  his  own,  he  regained  his  happi- 
ness and  good  temper,  and  returned  home. 

With  joy  he  saw  that  the  trees  in  the  Linden  were 
also  yellow,  and  as  he  drove  along  under  their  shade 
he  lost  the  last  vestige  of  second-rateness  that  clung  to 
him,  and  felt  glad  that  never  again  would  he  find  him- 
self face  to  face  with  Steinbach.  He  stopped  the  car 
and  got  out  to  walk  a  little  under  the  trees,  from  which 
the  beautiful  thin  leaves  fell  now  and  then  to  the 
ground,  and  he  paused  a  moment  before  he  turned  up 
into  the  street  where  his  home  was  in  order  to  appre- 
ciate the  invigorating  air  of  the  October  evening,  with 
its  slight  smell  of  frost,  of  dried  leaves,  and  of  aro- 
matic wood. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ONE  morning  on  a  bright  day  in  spring  Martin 
hurried  round  to  see  his  beloved  friend.  She 
lived  about  a  mile  away  from  him  and  he  had 
to  ride  down  Unter  den  Linden  in  order  to  get  to  her. 
He  had  just  finished  his  third  light  opera,  and  a  sense 
of  freedom  and  recurrence  of  youth  came  over  him, 
although  he  had  sat  up  all  night.  The  whole  winter 
had  been  passed  in  not  too  arduous  work,  which  was 
preoccupying  enough  to  keep  him  in  love  with  Sophie, 
who  remained  the  most  charming,  the  most  radiant 
creature  alive.  Her  charm  and  her  loveliness  seemed 
to  have  increased  under  his  caresses,  and  he  belonged 
to  her  in  all  his  free  moments  as  the  shadows  belong 
to  the  sunlight.  As  he  rode  gayly  down  the  Linden 
at  an  early  hour,  the  shops  were  washing  their  faces 
and  had  menials  manicuring  their  front  doorsteps  as 
it  were.  Those  artful  creatures,  the  stereotyped  shop- 
assistants,  who  in  the  daytime  dressed  in  smart  clothes 
and  tyrannized  over  customers,  were  behaving  like 
human  beings  as  they  walked  along  the  pavements  to 
their  work:  the  men  were  chatting  and  joking  with 
the  women,  the  srirls  were  amusing  themselves  at  the 
expense  of  the  boys. 

an 


212  MARTIN  SCHULER 

When  Schiiler  came  to  the  Brandenburg  gate  with 
the  quadriga  of  Victory  upon  the  top,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  its  looming  proportions  were  the  statue  of  the 
mighty  German  nation,  for  the  sun  fell  full  upon  it 
this  morning;  but  in  the  evening,  when  the  sun  was 
behind  it  and  cast  its  huge  shadow  forward,  it  seemed 
like  an  austere  and  overhanging  rock.  To-day  birds 
could  be  seen  perching  upon  its  cornices  and  even 
building  their  nests  in  the  niches  that  presented  them- 
selves. "  What  a  lot  of  nests  there  must  be  in  the 
chariot  of  Victory,''  he  thought  and  as  in  former  days 
the  thought  inspired  a  musical  idea.  "  A  cloud  of  birds 
fly  from  the  chariot  of  Victory,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  rode  under  the  archway.  When  he  got  through 
the  Brandenburg  Thor  he  turned  his  horse  towards  the 
Friedrichsvorstadt.  The  linden-trees  were  budding, 
the  sparrov/s  chattering,  dogs  ran  cheerily  after  their 
owners,  and  little  children  on  their  way  to  school 
were  daring  to  play  upon  the  steps  of  the  Victory 
monument  and  the  Hall  of  the  Imperial  Diet.  All 
nature  was  merry,  so  that  in  spite  of  a  feeling  of 
weariness  he  kept  his  restive  horse  at  a  brisk  walk 
with  the  aid  of  rein  and  heel.  He  experienced  a  curi- 
ous feeling  of  happiness.  "  I  am  myself  again,"  he 
thought.  Perhaps  it  was  the  feeling  of  youth  that  dis- 
persed his  experiences  and  gave  him  simplicity.  For  a 
moment  he  hesitated  whether  to  call  upon  Sophie  or  to 
go  for  a  long  ride.    He  went  for  a  ride  and  turned  his 


BERLIN  213 

horse  to  the  Charlotten  Chaussee  because  that  way  was 
long  and  straight.  He  could  ride  here  at  ease  and 
enjoy  his  morning  thought. 

He  thought  he  was  very  much  like  what  he  used  to 
be  in  the  old  days  before  Leipsic,  and  that  social  life 
was  a  little  tiring.  He  began  to  want  to  be  alone 
in  his  little  house  in  the  Black  Forest,  but  a  considera- 
tion of  Sophie's  feelings  drove  away  the  desire.  He 
seemed  to  see  his  love  for  Sophie  as  a  reality  and  his 
love  for  Hella  as  a  far  away  dream,  like  a  floating 
castle  upon  clouds.  "  Love  like  that  is  not  to  be 
found  down  here,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  should  like 
to  marry  Sophie  and  carry  her  off  to  my  quiet  den.'* 
So  he  went  on  talking  quietly  to  himself  as  one  does 
in  the  early  day  when  riding  upon  a  horse  or  walking 
over  a  hill.  "No,  I  believe  if  I  were  with  her  all 
night  and  day  I  should  tire  of  her.  That  is  a  heresy. 
Well,  I  can  think  of  heresies."  The  notion  of  Stein- 
bach  occurred  to  him,  and  he  felt  a  little  uneasy  and 
asked  himself  if  there  were  an  after  life,  an  idea  which 
did  not  really  trouble  him.  "  Of  course  there  is,"  he 
said.  "  No,  of  course  there  is  not.  There  is  a  power 
of  evil.  I  am  not  pure,  but  after  all  I  am  not  so  bad  " 
He  began  to  wonder  where  he  was  riding  to,  whether 
it  was  to  Charlottenburg  or  to  an  ultimate  goal,  but 
he  had  only  a  vague  idea  of  what  that  goal  might  be. 
He  decided  that  he  was  not  yet  dead  nor  had  he  really 
lived.    He  felt  for  a  moment  that  he  had  been  amusing 


214  MARTIN  SCHULER 

himself  for  years  and  waiting  for  something,  and  that 
in  the  meantime  he  had  allowed  people  to  handle  him 
and  influence  him.  Then  the  idea  vanished  as  he 
looked  at  the  arch  of  his  horse's  neck,  and  said,  "  My 
horse  is  a  good  horse.'*  He  wondered  if  people 
admired  him  upon  horseback,  for  it  seemed  that  he 
had  looked  presentable  in  the  glass  of  the  shop  win- 
dows of  the  Linden. 

The  sun  shone  down  upon  him,  a  light  wind  blew 
refreshingly  in  his  face;  it  wafted  the  trees  about, 
and  the  long  streamers  of  water  from  the  public 
fountains.  The  trees  formed  long  parallel  lines  before 
him,  between  which  ran  the  ever-narrowing  roadway, 
to  which  a  thin  sprinkling  of  people  seemed  to  be 
glued,  so  constant  was  their  number  upon  it.  The 
people  looked  very  small,  especially  in  the  distance, 
when  compared  with  the  wide  roadway  and  the  trees. 

"  How  little  everybody  is !  "  thought  Martin,  but 
he  himself  felt  about  as  large  as  the  statues  dotted 
about  the  park,  which  are  mostly  of  the  heroic  size 
and  compare  well  in  height  with  the  trees  and 
fountains. 

He  was  unable  to  conceive  the  idea  that  these  little 
creatures  walking  about  the  road  had  erected  the 
Brandenburg  Gateway  just  behind  him  or  the  Char- 
lotten  Palace  to  which  he  was  going.  It  was  difficult 
for  him  to  credit  that  the  builder  of  palaces  was  not 
nature. 


BERLIN  215 

"The  trees  will  soon  be  in  full  leaf,"  he  thought, 
a  little  further  on.  "  How  I  sigh  for  the  forests  of 
Bavaria!  I  would  like  to  see  Bertha,  my  sister.  Her 
children  must  be  tall  and  strong  now.  Are  any  of  them 
musicians?  Perhaps  one  of  them  will  outrival  me! 
No,  damned  be  the  thought:  I  will  be  the  greatest  of 
our  family." 

Suddenly  he  was  overcome  with  impatience,  and 
turning  his  horse,  made  his  way  quickly  by  cross  routes 
to  the  house  of  the  Countess  von  Sebaltz. 

When  he  arrived  in  her  boudoir  he  saw  signs  that 
she  had  risen.  The  morning  sun  filled  the  apartment, 
everything  glittered  with  white  sunshine.  The  door  into 
the  bedroom  was  open,  and  in  the  doorway  stood 
the  Countess,  drying  her  ears  with  a  fine  lawn  towel. 
When  Martin  saw  how  beautiful  she  was  erect  in  the 
morning  sun  he  cried  out: 

"  Oh,  you  remind  me  of  all  that  I  have  not 
attained!" 

"  How  innocent  you  are ! "  she  said  with  rapture ; 
"  you  remind  me  of  all  that  I  have  not  been." 

He  began  to  approach  her  with  hasty  awe  as  if  she 
were  a  dream,  but  she  vanished  into  the  bathroom  and 
he  could  hear  by  the  splashing  that  she  had  descended 
into  her  bath. 

He  retired  and  sat  down  with  a  sigh.  His  eyes 
ached  a  little.  What  hours  she  stayed  in  the  water! 
Presently,  however,  she  emerged  in  a  muslin  robe-de- 


2i6  MARTIN  SCHULER 

chambre,  with  a  huge  cape  of  frills  that  half  hid  her 
.face.  He  rose  and  went  up  to  her;  then  put  his  left 
arm  around  her,  and  with  his  right  hand  pressed  back 
the  frills  of  her  cape  in  order  to  kiss  her.  The  firm 
muscles  of  her  beautiful  youthful  back  were  against 
his  left  hand,  as  he  held  her  well  and  lightly.  Be- 
tween his  two  kisses  she  adored  him,  and  said : 

"  Wonderfullest  man ! " 

"  Most  wonderful  woman,"  he  replied,  and  the 
lightness  and  strength  of  that  beautiful  embrace  could 
scarcely  be  excelled. 

When  they  were  seated  at  the  breakfast-table,  drink- 
ing coffee  and  eating  rolls,  he  said : 

"  I  came  to  tell  you — I  came  to  announce  it  is  done. 
The  third  one,  dedicated  to  you." 

"Well  done,  excellently  done,"  she  said,  strok- 
ing his  hand.  "  But  my  dearest  one  looks  a  little 
tired!" 

"  I  worked  till  four  o'clock  this  morning."  He 
laughed  a  love-laugh,  and  jumping  up  suddenly  kissed 
her  mouth.    She  was  laughing  too. 

Presently  she  said,  "  Have  you  ever  loved  anybody 
as  you  love  me?  " 

"  No  one,"  he  replied. 

"  Have  you  ever  loved  anybody  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  most  troublesome  and  heavy-footed  passion 
for  a  good  woman  once.     She  demanded  a  complete 


BERLIN  217 

sacrifice  to  love :  not  to  herself,  to  love !  It  was  all-too- 
serious.    It  did  not  endure." 

Sophie  sighed  and  said  that  she  had  had  her  photo- 
graph taken. 

"  Do  not  give  it  to  anybody  but  me,"  said  Martin. 

"  Of  course  I  would  not  dream  of  such  a  thing!  Do 
I  want  everybody  to  have  me  to  stare  at?  " 

Martin  came  and  knelt  at  her  feet.  His  feeling  of 
former  days  was  returning.  He  put  his  arms  around 
her  and  hid  his  face  on  her  breast  in  order  to  shut  out 
the  present.  It  was  strange  for  him  to  have  such  a 
strong  recurrence  of  the  past.  He  seemed  to  have 
before  his  eyes  a  photograph  of  his  youth.  His 
loaded  memory,  from  which  up  to  now  he  had  taken 
nothing,  was  perhaps  beginning  to  burst.  His  thoughts 
came  to  a  head. 

"  I  am  thirty,"  he  muttered,  "  and  I  am  not  satis- 
fied with  myself.  I  am  most  displeased.  Never  will 
I  write  anything  more." 

Sophie  stroked  his  hair.  "  You  are  only  thirty, 
dearest,"  she  said ;  "  what  is  the  matter  with  my  little 
one?" 

His  mood  of  self-criticism  passed  in  a  flash,  but 
he  still  hid  his  head  in  her  breast. 

"  How  often  am  I  not  content,"  she  said,  soothing 
him;  " how  often  I  am  displeased  with  myself !  When 
I  was  a  girl  I  was  so  innocent  and  young  that  my  only 
dream  was  to  be  the  faithful  companion  of  a  man 


2i8  MARTIN  SCHULER 

and  a  faithful  mother  of  little  children.  Fate  has 
given  me  quite  different  things  to  do  and  I  try  to  do 
them  well.  Perhaps  your  successes  are  not  quite  those 
you  dreamed  of,  but  they  are  brilliant;  does  not  every- 
body love  and  admire  you?  does  not  everything  you 
want  fall  at  your  feet  ?  Your  Sophie  does ;  she  is  your 
little  slave.  Perhaps  she  is  not  very  good.  Some  people 
call  her  a  little  fool,  and  are  writing  letters  to  her 
husband  about  her.  But  I  do  not  think  I  am  wicked, 
and  if  so  I  must  be  wicked  because  you  are  so  wonder- 
ful. Are  you  not  wonderful?  Of  necessity  I  am  not 
good." 

"  I  forgot  Hella  von  Rosenthal,"  said  Martin,  "  as 
easily  as  a  fledgeling  forgets  its  mother."  This 
seemed  to  him  at  the  moment  a  crime.  "  I  may  forget 
you." 

"You  are  a  genius,"  answered  Sophie;  "  everything 
you  do  is  right.  I  am  sure  she  does  not  reproach  you ; 
I  am  sure  she  has  only  a  few  little  regrets  because  she 
is  human." 

Martin,  who  did  not  want  to  have  the  subject  of 
Hella  enlarged  upon,  kissed  her  under  the  chin  in  that 
small  hollow  that  Frenchwomen  are  so  proud  of. 

"  My  darlingest,"  he  whispered,  "  you  smell  of  wild 
roses  and  honeysuckle.  That  is  my  idea  of  you.  You 
are  my  genius  and  my  nurse.  How  lovely  you  looked 
in  your  doorway.  When  I  want  pure  inspiration  I 
shall  come  and  watch  you," 


BERLIN  219 

After  he  had  kissed  her  he  got  up  and  left  her. 
Outside  the  servant  was  holding  his  horse  for  him.  He 
gave  him  a  large  tip,  which  was  unusual,  and  mounted 
gayly.  He  rode  down  to  the  Potsdam  gate,  but  the  day 
was  so  beautiful  that  he  decided  to  resume  his  inter- 
rupted ride  to  Charlottenburg.  When  he  got  there  he 
stabled  his  horse  and  walked  to  the  Mausoleum,  which 
he  entered.  He  liked  the  entrance  with  the  marble 
angel  and  the  theatrical  light  effects.  Anything  with 
wings  was  particularly  attractive  to  him.  Entering, 
he  found  himself  among  dead  Emperors  and  Em- 
presses. He  stared  some  moments  at  the  beautiful 
recumbent  figure  of  the  Queen  Louise,  and  a  desire  to 
pray  came  upon  him,  but  to  what  he  did  not  know: 
perhaps  to  Queen  Louise.  He  seemed  to  be  begging 
of  her  to  lift  him  up,  but  out  of  what  he  could  not 
tell:  perhaps  to  a  love  he  had  forgotten,  to  a  state 
of  mind  that  he  had  fallen  from.  His  love  for  Sophie 
had  none  of  the  depth  of  passion  of  those  days  upon 
the  mountains  with  Hella.  Yes,  the  pure  marble  of 
the  statue  recalled  the  snow  upon  the  mountains,  and 
yet  Hella  was  like  the  deep  sea,  and  Sophie  was,  in 
perfect  taste,  like  a  carven  statue.  He  did  not  require 
a  woman  who  demanded  from  him  the  sacrifice  of  his 
whole  soul :  he  required  one  who  would  fill  him  with 
life  and  joy  and  the  power  to  do  great  things.  Was 
Sophie  sufficient  ?  Her  body  was  a  fine  representation 
of  the  intellectual.     Did  he  lie  within  himself,  suffi- 


220  MARTIN  SCHULER 

cient  unto  himself  like  these  dead  bodies?  Should  he 
repel  outward  influences  and,  like  a  great  river,  flow 
from  his  own  soul  only?  His  heart  seemed  full  to 
breaking.  He  stretched  his  arms  above  his  head  like 
one  who  aspires  physically,  regardless  of  a  number  of 
tourists  who  with  devout  steps  were  prowling  around 
the  great  dead  of  the  old  world  and  snifling  their  last 
musty  savor  with  nostrils  dilated  for  the  very  purpose. 

He  heard  the  curator  whisper  under  his  breath, 
"  That  is  Martin  von  Schuler." 

"  Would  he  point  me  out  to  them  if  I  had  gone  my 
own  way?  "  he  thought;  "  perhaps  fame  is  better  than 
immortality.'* 

The  boldest  of  the  tourists  dared  to  ask  him  for  an 
autograph. 

"  No,"  he  said  in  German,  "I  can  write  nothing  but 
music " — none  of  which  she  understood  except  the 
negative.  The  curator  laughed  however,  and  winked 
at  Martin  as  the  party  left  the  place,  but  he  remained 
behind,  and  continued  his  meditations,  staring  at  the 
floor  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  His  last  work  had 
been  an  effort.  He  had  found  it  necessary  to  work 
up  to  a  standard — the  standard  of  his  second  opera. 
He  had  to  keep  in  the  same  vein — that  was  the  most 
difficult  part — and  at  the  same  level.  He  was  pleased 
with  himself,  but  he  did  not  feel  that  a  third  effort 
upon  the  same  lines  was  possible  to  him,  for  he  did  not 
count  "  The  Coquettes,"  which  was  an  accident. 


BERLIN  221 

"  Well,"  he  thought  at  last,  "  I  cannot  stand  here 
all  day.  I  had  better  go  and  see  if  they  are  over- 
feeding my  mare/* 

He  spent  the  afternoon  choosing  a  present  for 
Sophie  von  Sebaltz,  in  order  to  commemorate  the 
occasion.  He  was  not  fond  of  jewels;  he  liked  giving 
her  flowers,  but  on  this  occasion  he  chose  a  ring  which 
the  jeweller's  assistant  at  Wagner's  assured  him  was 
quite  what  she  liked.  It  was  a  cameo  of  the  head  of  the 
Medusa,  with  black  hair  and  a  white  face  upon  a  black 
background.  "  We  have  ascertained  that  several  queens 
have  worn  it,  excellency,"  said  the  salesman.  A  Jew- 
ish person  with  a  beak  nose  confirmed  this  statement. 
"  Aber  so ! "  he  said,  taking  the  jewel  from  Martin 
and  examining  it  with  a  lens.  "  Aber  so !  It  is  the 
finest,  the  most  royal  jewel  in  our  establishment ! " 

Besides  this  ring  he  had  only  given  her  a  jewelled 
cigarette  case  and  a  pearl  upon  a  long  platinum  chain. 
For  this  he  had  paid  about  eighteen  thousand  marks. 
The  pearl  always  hung  near  her  heart  in  the  most 
sacred  of  love's  shrines,  for  he  called  it  his  frozen  kiss. 
As  for  other  gifts,  he  was  not  fond  of  books.  The 
only  book  he  had  ever  given  her  was  Plato's  "  Phae- 
drus"  in  Greek,  which  neither  of  them  could  read. 
He  gave  it  to  her  because  Countess  Ardstein  had  told 
him  that  it  contained  the  epitome  of  perfect  love. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ALTHOUGH  Martin  Schuler  was  now  thirty 
years  of  age,  the  peahens  was  not  yet  brought 
off.  He  had  not  even  read  Werner's  poem; 
in  fact  he  had  almost  completely  forgotten  the  whole 
idea.  His  second  opera,  "  The  Saddest  Singer,"  was 
a  furious  success.  When  he  had  brought  it  to  Berlin 
everybody  went  wild  about  it.  Everybody  sang  the 
chief  song  in  it — 

"So  beautiful  is  the  singer 
Who  sadly  sings  of  love." 

It  was  edited  for  sopranos,  contraltos,  tenors,  and 
baritones,  with  and  without  obligatos  for  every  con- 
ceivable instrument.  It  was  edited  as  a  piano  solo,  a 
violin  solo,  a  clarinet  solo.  Martin  made  a  fortune  out 
of  it.  It  was  chanted  in  all  countries  and  in  all  lan- 
guages by  every  make  of  gramophone.  One  heard  it 
as  frequently  as  the  "  Merry  Widow  "  waltz,  or  Offen- 
bach's "  Barcarolle,"  which,  after  a  dozen  years  of 
popularity  still  moves  the  hearts  of  the  bourgeoisie. 

One  day  Martin  sat  in  the  out-of-door  restaurant 
of  one  of  the  best  hotels  in  Berlin  in  charming  com- 
pany.    Amongst  those  present  the  beautiful  actress, 

222 


BERLIN  223 

Tarquine,  sat  next  to  him,  clothed  in  an  up-to-date 
white  tailor-made.  He  chattered  with  her  throughout 
the  luncheon,  and  she  rubbed  the  whitening  off  her 
doeskin  boots  on  to  his  trousers.  Tarquine  was  one 
of  those  very  vivacious  people  who  can  neither  keep 
their  feet  nor  their  tongues  still.  It  was  difficult  to 
recognize  in  this  spick-and-span  Herr  von  Schuler, 
in  the  smart  navy  blue  lounge  suit,  with  the  longish 
oiled  hair  brushed  up  from  his  brows,  the  black 
mustache  and  the  slightly  musical  tie,  that  sloppy, 
neglected-looking  youth  who  used  to  sit  with  his  elder 
sister  in  an  attic  den,  papered  with  a  soiled  mustard- 
colored  wall-paper.  He  was  changed  even  from  the 
somewhat  provincial  creature  of  a  few  years  ago,  who 
bought  good  clothes  off  the  peg  and  wore  rather  too 
large  collars. 

Is  one  ever  different  from  the  present;  that  is  to 
say,  has  one  a  past  ?  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  one's 
other  images  were  oneself  at  all  and  not  substitutes. 

"  Ah "  said  Tarquine,  "  to-night  we  shall  witness 
another  succis  fou!  Ah,  mais  out,  mon  tout  p'tit 
homme"  she  exclaimed  to  Martin,  "  I  intend  to  make 
myself  a  success  in  the  title  role." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Martin,  who  was  in 
good  spirits. 

This  was  the  day  of  the  production  of  his  third 
opera.  He  was  always  happy  when  there  was  any 
chance  of  public  glory,     fje  Ipyed  his  name  in  the 


224  MARTIN  SCHULER 

papers,  and  enjoyed  the  applause  of  the  multitude, 
for  he  valued  the  acclamation  of  the  herd  far  above 
the  praise  of  individuals. 

The  hors-d'oeuvres  the  soup,  the  special  fish,  the 
delicate  entrecote  maitre  d'hotel,  the  duck  so  tender 
and  young  with  equally  young  and  tender  green  peas 
enhanced  with  a  sauce  of  apricots  and  oysters  a  la 
moselle  had  all  been  submitted,  approved,  served,  and 
devoured.  The  waiters  bowed  with  the  beautiful 
concoction  of  Venus  before  the  guests,  a  stimulating 
savory  which  appeared  to  be  made  of  pistachio  nuts 
and  thin  slices  of  curried  ham,  but  which  tasted  as 
strange  and  delicate  as  the  perfume  of  an  exotic  China 
rose.  The  luncheon  party  chattered,  gormandized,  and 
roared  with  laughter.  The  summer  sun  poured  down 
upon  the  awning.  Iced  champagne  stood  in  pewter 
buckets,  the  bottles  decently  attired  in  white  cloths  to 
prevent  the  waiters  from  getting  chilblains.  The  ladies 
helped  themselves  to  wild  strawberries  out  of  little 
silver  baskets.  They  put  strawberries  into  their  cham- 
pagne so  that  they  bobbed  like  pieces  of  red  amber 
upon  little  golden  ponds.  The  noise  and  gayety  of 
the  party  distressed  the  grave  English  family  who  sat 
at  the  next  table,  and  caused  them  to  say,  "  What  terri- 
ble manners  these  Germans  have !  '*  They  turned  away 
when  Tarquine  opened  her  handsome  mouth  so  wide 
that  the  little  strawberries  could  roll  into  it  with  the 
champagne. 


BERLIN  225 

"  Strawberries ! "  said  Martin,  who  was  becoming 
in  a  better  and  better  humor;  and  the  others — that  is 
to  say,  Konstanz,  Hirchner,  Susie  Meyder,  Gaiya  Sal- 
viati  and  Fritz  Zeiss — all  went  off  into  roars  of  laugh- 
ter over  the  very  improper  joke  they  all  knew  about 
strawberries.  Konstanz  particularly  winked  at  Gaiya, 
whom  he  loved  equally  well  with  Lottie  and  Beda, 
if  not  with  half  a  dozen  others.  Tarquine  moved  her 
vivacious  feet  in  glee  under  the  table,  and  the  calves 
of  Martin's  trousers  assumed  the  aspect  of  whited 
sepulchers.  Off  the  stage  she  was  one  of  those  ener- 
getic Dianas  who  destroy,  rend,  break,  or  upset  what- 
ever they  come  in  contact  with.  Her  chief  charm  as 
an  actress  was  her  boundless  vitality  and  her  irrepres- 
sible liveliness. 

"  Listen !  "  she  cried,  holding  up  her  spoon  with  the 
remnant  of  her  hot-ice  in  it  and  waving  it  rhythmi- 
cally in  the  air : 

"So  beautiful  is  the  singer ! " 

she  sang  softly,  as  the  orchestra,  at  a  whisper  from 
the  Herr  Restaurantkeeper,  struck  up  Martin's  song. 
It  was  repeated  three  times.  The  gay  company  paid 
compliments  to  the  hero  and  drank  to  the  success  of 
his  new  opera  "  The  Maidens  of  Weimar,'*  which  was 
going  to  be  produced  that  evening.  For  that  matter 
it  was  already  an  assured  success,  and  the  hilarity  of 
the  party  was  greatly  due  to  the  fact  that  they  were 


226  MARTIN  SCHULER 

all  going  to  benefit  by  it.  All  the  guests  in  the  restaur- 
ant ceased  eating,  and  enquired  from  the  waiters  who 
the  person  with  the  black  mustache  might  be.  On 
learning  who  he  was,  several  of  them  stood  up  to  get 
a  better  view. 

The  orchestra  ceased  playing  and  turned  to  look  at 
the  hero  with  whom  it  felt  that  it  was  one. 

Suddenly  the  composer  stood  up  and  turned  livid. 
He  swore  the  most  terrible  oath,  blasphemed  God  and 
insulted  the  Emperor,  then  strode  down  the  steps  into 
the  glaring  sunshine  and  vanished  down  a  side  street. 

The  company  was  astonished.  The  waiters  and 
some  of  the  guests  ran  to  the  steps  in  order  to  see 
what  had  become  of  him.  A  taxi-man  driving  past 
opened  his  door  and  indicated  that  they  should  go 
with  him  in  pursuit.  Three  of  them  did,  but  they 
never  saw  Martin  Schiiler  again. 

Nothing  serious  had  taken  place.  Martin  had  merely 
heard,  like  a  faint  echo  of  the  orchestra,  what  seemed 
to  him  the  miserable  chime  of  a  hurdy-gurdy  grinding 
out  his  over-sung  song.  Instantly  he  had  had  a  clear 
vision  of  his  young  God-inspired  self  gazing  out  over 
Heidelberg,  and  his  soul  cried  aloud  with  nameless 
execrations  that  he  had  betrayed  himself  to  shame. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

NIGHT  was  falling  over  Berlin  when  Martin 
returned  to  his  house.  He  was  physically  and 
mentally  ill.  Where  he  had  been  or  what  he 
had  done  all  day  he  could  not  remember.  His  mind 
was  filled  with  the  recollection  he  had  of  Tarquine 
as  she  appeared  at  the  last  rehearsal  in  short  chiffon 
skirts  and  a  hussar's  coat.  The  memory  of  this  and  of 
the  fact  that  his  music  had  been  played  upon  a  hurdy- 
gurdy  revealed  to  him  the  baseness  of  what  he  called 
his  self -betrayal.  The  best  emanation  of  his  brain 
during  the  last  five  years  was  suitable  for  a  street 
organ.  Ever  since  he  had  last  seen  Steinbach  a  sus- 
picion had  arisen  in  him  from  time  to  time  that  his 
life  was  not  as  it  should  be,  and  yet  the  success  he 
had  had  and  the  pleasure  he  gave  flattered  him,  and  he 
reassured  himself  that  all  was  right  with  him.  Never- 
theless the  new  force  or  the  old  force,  the  suspicion  of 
himself,  or  the  dawning  realization  of  his  power,  or 
whatever  it  might  be,  had  caused  him  recently  to 
become  uneasy  and  on  the  look  out  and  to  indulge 
more  frequently  in  sharp,  loud  accesses  of  bad  temper. 
Now,  as  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  his  bedroom  in  the 
attitude  of  thinking  and  perplexity,  he  began  suddenly 

227 


228  MARTIN  SCHULER 

to  shake  and  became  beside  himself.  He  seemed  to 
see  all  his  friends  arrayed  against  him,  pointing  the 
finger  at  him  and  saying  "  That  man  is  a  failure."  He 
hid  his  face  in  his  hands  as  he  stood  there  in  the  dim 
white  twilight,  a  black  shadowy  figure  amidst  the  white 
walls  of  his  room.  A  furious  desire  to  shoot  himself 
or  to  plunge  at  once  into  a  personal  revolution  seized 
him.  He  longed  to  wage  civil  war  against  himself,  to 
immolate,  to  annihilate  everything  of  him.  He  threw 
himself  upon  his  bed  and  wept  extravagantly.  His 
soul  raged  against  his  soul.  The  blood  boiled  in  his 
veins  and  rushed  to  his  head,  his  heart  accelerated, 
he  choked  and  was  desperately  sick.  He  flung  him- 
self upon  the  floor  and  lay  for  a  long  time  in  an  agony 
with  his  teeth  clenched,  his  brows  contracted,  his  lower 
jaw  protruded.  Tears  streamed  from  his  eyes  and  with 
his  hands  he  caught  the  leopard  skin  rug  in  a  fierce 
grasp.  He  lay  still  in  the  madness  of  degradation,  and 
swiftly  all  the  things  he  had  ever  done  passed  through 
his  mind,  tinged,  stained,  and  ruined  with  futility.  He 
fell  into  a  nightmare  of  horror,  in  the  middle  of  which 
his  secretary  came  into  the  room.  When  Wolf  saw 
him  upon  the  floor  he  gave  a  low  cry — ^he  thought  he 
saw  a  murdered  man.  Instantly  Martin  sprang  up, 
anger  and  passion  running  like  a  storm  of  fire  through 
him. 

"  Go  out  of  my  sight !  '*  he  shouted  in  a  transport 
of  fury,  neither  knowing  or  caring  what  he  said.  "  Go ! 


BERLIN  229 

You  foul  snarer,  you  beast  of  the  earth ! ''  His  heart 
trembled,  his  body  shuddered  :  he  thought  he  saw  in  his 
secretary  an  incarnation  of  his  degradation.  Delighted 
also  to  be  able  to  make  some  sensitive  creature  suffer, 
he  sprang  upon  him  as  he  cowered  against  the  wall 
and  struck  him  furiously.  "  You  coward !  you  beast 
of  the  earth !  "  he  howled  again,  "  you  reptile !  Your 
insignificance  shrivels  you  in  your  miserable  skin." 
Martin  struck  him  again.  "  You  loathsome  hypocrite. 
Thank  your  God  I  have  no  weapon.  If  I  had  a  wea- 
pon I  would  kill  you  as  Saul  killed  David — transfix 
you  to  the  wall — smash  out  your  brains.  Time-server ! 
Escape  now,  escape,"  he  cried,  swaying  back  from  the 
wall  and  making  with  his  hands  the  movements  of 
strangling.  "  God  in  hell,  escape  or  I  shall  choke  you 
with  my  naked  hands ;  the  sight  of  you  is  intolerable.*' 

Wolf  slid  to  the  door  and  Martin  lunged  again  and 
struck  him  in  the  back  of  the  neck.  Wolf  reeled  and 
nearly  fell  backwards,  but  managed  to  gain  the  door. 
Streaming  with  blood  he  disappeared  through  it.  His 
dismay  as  he  heard  Martin  turn  the  key  in  the  lock 
caused  him  to  huddle  himself  upon  the  ground.  His 
nature  was  revolted  because  he  had  not  struck  back, 
but  one  does  not  strike  a  superior  officer,  one  does  not 
strike  God  or  Martin  Schuler. 

"  The  fool !  "  said  Martin  to  himself  smiling,  "  the 
fool!  He  thinks  I  am  mad.  He  will  probably  fetch 
the  police."  He  flung  himself  upon  his  bed  in  the  hope 


230  MARTIN  SCHULER 

that  despair  would  again  fasten  down  upon  him  and 
blot  out  his  abominable  feelings,  but  it  did  not.  He 
felt  calmer,  but  he  also  felt  that  if  anybody  turned  the 
handle  of  his  door  he  would  open  it,  drag  him  in,  and 
kill  him.  Soon  he  slept,  but  his  dreams  were  uneasy. 
Leopards  pervaded  a  green  atmosphere.  Discontent, 
despair,  and  anguish  drifted  together  in  an  indefinite 
sea,  where  there  were  ridges  of  green  and  parts  of 
leopards,  anguish  and  despair  revolving  together  in  an 
uneven  movement. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HE  was  to  have  taken  Sophie  to  the  theater 
to  hear  his  new  piece.  He  was  to  have  taken 
her  out  to  dinner  first — to  have  brought  her 
flowers  and  petted  and  spoiled  her.  They  were  to  have 
had  a  happy  evening  teasing  one  another  with  pleasant- 
ries of  which  they  never  got  tired.  She  waited  a  long 
time  for  him.  She  lay  upon  the  sofa  of  her  boudoir. 
She  was  not  angry  because  Schuler  did  not  come: 
she  was  afraid.  She  dared  not  go  out  alone  because 
she  knew  that  if  he  found  her  gone  he  would  be  in  a 
mad  rage.  She  had  no  idea  what  kept  him,  but  she 
dared  not  go  and  see  if  he  was  ill  till  he  sent  for  her. 
Her  fears  were  not  deep  enough  to  make  her  cry.  She 
did  not  cry  easily;  perhaps  her  feelings  were  never 
very  strong,  or  perhaps  she  was  philosophical.  She 
lit  a  cigarette  and  drank  some  coffee. 

At  ten  o'clock  she  established  herself  at  the  window, 
and,  standing  there  holding  apart  the  sulphur-colored 
curtains,  she  looked  like  a  beautiful  picture  by  some 
French  follower  of  Whistler.  The  tones  of  pale 
sulphur  and  delicate  pearl-pink,  shadowed  with  gray 
by  the  bright  blue  dusk  of  the  evening,  the  long 
chiffon  dress  that  hung  straight  upon  the  floor,  the 

231 


232  MARTIN  SCHULER 

white  ermine  coat  unmarred  with  black  flicks  of  tails, 
showed  beautiful  and  soft  as  a  picture  upon  a  flat 
surface  in  the  light  of  the  shaded  lamp.  Her  delicate 
right  hand  had  upon  it  the  black  and  white  ring  that 
Martin  had  given  her.  It  looked  like  the  exotic  signa- 
ture of  the  artist.  There  was  nothing  real  about  her. 
Frequently  she  was  unreal :  a  fairy  princess.  To-night 
she  was  at  the  zenith  of  her  beauty.  Physically,  in  her 
beautiful  pale  clothes,  she  was  a  faultless  dream,  re- 
minding one  of  the  most  perfectly  grown  malmaison 
carnations,  of  pearls  without  flaw,  of  ivory  carved  into 
eastern  houris  with  black  onyx  hair.  She  was  an 
object  of  art. 

When  it  was  quite  dark  Martin  awoke  and  imme- 
diately took  his  hat,  unlocked  the  door,  and  hurried 
down  into  the  street.  It  was  half  past  eleven.  The 
lights  in  the  street  were  brilliant.  He  turned  into 
Unter  den  Linden  and  walked  rapidly  under  the 
emerald  green  trees  that  seemed  in  the  powerful  light 
of  the  overhead  lamps  to  be  made  of  jewels.  He  passed 
the  gay  cafes  where  everything  was  glaring  vermilion 
and  bright  yellow  and  dark  green,  as  if  they  were  cafes 
on  the  stage.  Above  him  stretched  the  dark  purple 
impassive  sky,  around  him  was  noise  and  laughter  and 
brilliance.  There  was  no  sympathy  in  anything.  When 
he  was  brilliant  he  was  the  god  of  brilliancy;  when  he 
was  alone  in  the  forest  he  was  the  god  of  the  night;  but 


BERLIN  233 

to-night  he  was  alone  in  the  brilliance.  He  walked 
on  to  the  gateway  that  seemed  to  be  the  gateway  of 
life,  and  went  under  it  as  if  he  were  returning  to  hell. 
All  the  dramatic  feelings  of  which  he  was  capable  rose 
in  him.  He  longed  to  create  a  sensation,  to  die  of  an 
attack  of  the  heart  under  the  arch  of  the  gate,  to  go 
mad  and  rave  screaming  down  the  Linden,  to  have 
wings  and  be  carried  upon  them  up  into  the  sky  out 
of  life  and  the  desperate  state  he  was  in.  He  felt 
himself  sinking  in  a  sea,  and  nothing,  he  assured  him- 
self, nothing  in  the  world,  could  raise  him  out  of  it. 

Soon  he  found  himself  entering  Sophie's  house, 
ascending  her  stairs,  and  going  into  her  boudoir.  The 
light  and  the  sweet  perfume  made  him  feel  tired. 

Directly  he  appeared  she  ran  to  him  and  threw 
herself  into  his  arms.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  her.  He  wanted  to  behave  so  as  to  make  himself 
feel  happy  and  to  remove  the  despair  out  of  his  heart. 
The  soft  feeling  of  her  clothes  soothed  him  a  little :  to 
gather  fur  and  satin  and  chiffon  under  one's  hand  gives 
at  least  a  sense  of  physical  well-being.  When  he  had 
moved  his  hands  about  on  her  a  little  he  thought  he 
would  speak. 

"  I  am  done  for."  He  seemed  to  have  said  some- 
thing like  it  before.  Everything  seemed  a  reiteration. 
His  life  was  stirred  into  a  whirling  pool ;  events  were 
now  in  the  future,  now  in  the  past. 

**Oh!how?" 


234  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"How?    How  should  I  know." 

Sophie's  heart  sank — evidently  he  was  madly  angry. 

**  Was  the  play  not  well  received?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  to  the  play.  My  heart  is  broken : 
I  am  dead :  I  am  a  writer  of  opera  houffe." 

"But " 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  dead.  Take  your  arms  from  me : 
I  am  a  corpse.*' 

She  did  not  move. 

"  Forsake  me,  I  say :  all  have." 

Still  she  did  not  move. 

He  thought  how  splendidly  devoted  she  was.  She 
herself  neither  believed  what  he  said  nor  saw  any 
reason  to  desert  him.  She  had  no  idea  what  to  do  and 
was  moreover  frightened.  She  liked  to  hold  him  for 
protection. 

She  put  her  face  up  and  kissed  him. 

He  buried  her  in  his  arms,  and,  picking  her  up,  put 
her  on  the  divan  and  threw  himself  beside  her. 

She  loved  him  very  much  just  then:  all  her  excit- 
able emotions  were  satisfied.  He  began  to  breathe 
heavily  and  to  sob. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  I  am  dead." 

She  stroked  his  head.    "  No,  no." 

"  Tell  me  I  am  a  failure." 

"  What !  "  she  whispered ;  "  why,  you  can  do  any- 
thing in  the  world." 

"How  can  you  tell?" 


BERLIN  235 

"I  know/' 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  Because  I  know/* 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  Her. 

"  Tell  me  what  I  am  to  do." 

"  To  be  brave." 

"  How  am  I  to  be  brave  ?  " 

"  To  go  away."  The  time-honored  remedy  was  the 
only  suggestion  she  could  make. 

"  To  go  where  ?  " 

"  To  the  Black  Forest." 

He  besfan  to  tell  her  about  his  life,  and  talked  to  her 
until  dawn.  He  told  her  the  most  exaggerated  story 
of  his  past,  which  was  far  different  from  the  truth, 
in  which  he  had  suffered  a  thousand  dramatic  and 
awful  moments,  and  been  tortured  and  made  happy 
bevond  the  lot  even  of  mythical  beings.  He  gave  her 
an  idea  so  terrible  of  his  sufferings  as  a  youth  born 
to  eenius,  of  his  betrayal — as  he  called  it — ^by  Stein- 
bach,  of  his  destruction — as  he  imagined  it  to  be — by 
Hella,  that  her  imagination  was  stirred  and  all  those 
little-used  forces  of  thought  in  her  took  from  his 
grotesaue,  magnificent  recital  enough  fire  to  kindle 
in  him  a  flame  of  hope,  a  desire  for  the  future,  and  a 
will  to  be  more  wonderful  than  anvbody  that  had  ever 
lived  in  the  whole  world.  At  cock-crow  he  left  her 
and  went  away  to  be  bv  himself  in  order  to  dream 
that  He  was  young  and  that  all  that  He  Had  just  said 


236  MARTIN  SCHULER 

existed  only  in  his  imagination.  Unfortunately,  his 
flame  of  hope  was  not  very  strong:  his  defeat  was 
heavy  and  smothered  it  into  gray  smoke.  It  lay  and 
smouldered  for  a  long  time,  and  neither  Sophie  nor 
Wolf  had  any  power  to  cheer  him  from  the  deep  de- 
pression and  loneliness  that  came  over  him,  or  to 
draw  him  out  of  the  muddy  fen  of  misery  that  he 
had  fallen  into. 


SCHWARZWALD 


SCHWARZWALD 
CHAPTER  XXIV 

MARTIN  SCHULER  left  Berlin  on  the  13th 
of  July  in  his  automobile.  He  felt  no  regret 
as  the  car  carried  him  for  the  last  time  down 
Unter  den  Linden.  Again  the  past  was  closed  down 
by  a  departure.  He  sat  alone  in  his  blue  Mercedes 
thinking  of  nothing,  dreaming  of  nothing,  but  he  was 
experiencing  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  his  life.  What 
he  saw  as  the  automobile  and  his  past  life  grew  fur- 
ther apart,  he  afterwards  realized.  The  rain  was  pour- 
ing down  in  torrents;  the  heavy  drops  pattered  on  the 
leaves.  The  words  "  Unter  den  Blattern  "  came  into 
Martin's  mind.  "  Blattern,"  short  and  sharp  and 
hard,  was  repeated  a  thousand  times  by  the  dripping 
trees.  It  might  mean  something,  it  might  mean 
nothing;  but  whatever  its  significance,  Martin  never 
forgot  it,  and  one  may  now  hear,  if  one  thinks  fit 
to  go  to  those  rare  performances  of  Schiiler  opera, 
"  unter  den  Blattern,"  "  unter  den  Blattern,  Blattern, 
Blattern,  Blattern,"  repeated  mercilessly  through  a 
whole  episode  by  the  violins. 

For  hours  he  lay  in  the  car  physically  at  ease  in  the 

339 


240  MARTIN  SCHULER 

luxury  of  solitude.  Wolf,  Sophie,  and  the  rest  of  his 
paraphernalia  were  in  the  train.  He  thought  of  them 
for  a  minute,  as  if  they  were  a  couple  of  boxes,  and 
then  solitude  came  back  like  a  refreshing  dream.  He 
dozed  and  slept  in  that  luxurious  car,  cut  off  from  the 
entire  universe. 

They  drove  through  Dresden ;  the  houses  passed  by 
him  rapidly  with  the  rain  and  the  trees  and  the  ped- 
estrians, like  false  objects  in  a  mise  en  sc^ne.  The 
whole  of  Germany  seemed  to  be  swimming  in  rain. 
The  rain  beat  fiercely  upon  the  car  and  splashed  and 
spat  around  the  wind  screen  upon  the  unfortunate 
chauffeurs,  for  Herr  von  Schiiler  never  went  a  long 
distance  without  two,  so  that  when  one  was  exhausted 
the  other  could  take  his  place.  As  dusk  came  on  it 
became  impossible  to  see  the  road  with  the  screen  shut, 
so  Bergensen,  the  Swedish  mechanic,  opened  it,  and 
the  rain  cut  and  drove  in  upon  their  faces.  Schiiler 
lay  comfortably  upon  the  mauve  corduroy  divan,  his 
dinner  case  and  tantalus  open  beside  him.  Drops  of 
rain  splashed  into  the  car  from  time  to  time,  through 
the  slit  of  open  window.  The  condition  of  the  wea- 
ther filled  him  with  absurd  joy.  The  chill,  heavy  wet- 
ness of  the  atmosphere,  the  dark  gloom  of  the  sky, 
gave  him  a  memory  of  Schiilersholm,  on  lake  Titter- 
see,  where  in  the  morning  he  would  find  himself.  In 
his  mind  he  cried  to  Thor  and  Wodin  and  the  Norse 
gods  of  violent  nature  to  let  loose  the  fountains  of 


SCHWARZWALD  241 

heaven  and  pour  upon  the  earth  an  exceptional  deluge 
of  rain. 

The  endless  motion  of  the  car  ceased  at  some  point 
in  the  night,  and  Schiiler  awoke  to  the  fact  that  the 
world  had  ceased  to  go  round  and  that  death  is  a  nega- 
tion of  movement.  Voices  were  talking  to  the  chauf- 
feur. In  a  few  minutes  Martin  put  his  head  out  of 
the  window  and  said : 

"  Who  is  this?  Where  are  we?  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"  Regensburg,  Herr  Count,  Regensburg — ^the  au- 
thorities of  the  bridge." 

"  Ah,  Regensburg,"  said  Martin,  and  got  out.  It 
was  about  half -past  eleven  o*clock  at  night.  A 
group  of  men  came  round  him  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance. 

"  Water  was  necessary,  sir,"  said  the  French  chauf- 
feur; "also  to  cool  the  car;  also  the  authority  of  the 
bridge." 

"  Ah,  the  sacred  stream ! "  said  Martin,  advancing 
to  the  group  of  people.  "  Permit  me,  I  would  like  to 
look  over." 

"  This  is  a  very  old  bridge,"  said  one  man. 

"  Very  old,  very  old,"  said  three  or  four  others. 

"  It  is  still  raining,"  Martin  answered. 

"  But  not  as  before,"  said  the  police  official. 

Martin  had  on  only  a  thin  lounge  suit  and  no  hat; 
upon  his  feet  were  thin  shoes. 


242  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  river,  Prince,  if  one 
may  interrogate  ?  **  said  a  bold  late  diner-out. 

"  It  seems  very  black,"  said  Martin,  who  was  aware 
that  the  river  was  the  highway  of  Europe  to  Con- 
stantinople. 

Somebody  lit  a  newspaper,  and  when  it  had  flared 
up  let  it  fall  over  the  black  chasm  of  the  bridge.  The 
river  was  too  murky  to  give  a  reflection. 

"  That  is  very  beautiful,'*  said  Martin,  as  the  news- 
paper sailed  slowly  downwards  like  an  angel  of  heaven 
into  hell. 

"  Your  car  is  ready,  sir,'*  said  the  French  chauffeur. 

Martin  still  lingered  at  the  corner  of  the  bridge, 
looking  down  into  the  abyss.  After  a  few  minutes  he 
said : 

"  On  it  comes  from  under,  and  hangs  like  hair  upon 
the  piers,  and  streams  longer  and  longer  till  it  grows 
to  the  sea." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man  next  to  him :  "  it  is  always 
the  same  water  under  this  bridge;  we  love  it,  it  is  so 
familiar : 

"Our  water  is  so  familiar. 
Thou  art  my  under-  and  my  over-going. 

"  Not  a  rhythm  to  admire,  Herr  Count." 
Martin  leaned  over  the  parapet.    His  eyes  were  ac- 
customed to  the  dark.     He  could  see  streaks  of  the 
onflowing  river. 


SCHWARZWALD  243 

"What  IS  your  over-going?"  he  said  to  the  man 
who  had  spoken  to  him. 

The  man,  who  was  young  and  had  the  silhouette  of 
one  given  to  thinking,  made  a  gesture  with  his  hands 
to  represent  the  bridge  and  the  river.  "  At  right 
angles,"  he  said,  "  at  right  angles  over  and  under,  on- 
wards with  motion  and  onwards  without  motion,  but 
both  of  them  are  permanent.  The  ripples  around  the 
pier  change  very  little;  they  only  change  to  become 
what  they  have  been  before.  The  road  over  the  bridge 
is  the  same :  mend  it,  mend  it,  and  the  same  holes  re- 
appear. It  is  all  based  on  the  fundamental  structure 
and  the  mathematical  idea.  Everything  is  based  on  the 
philosophical  notion:  that  and  the  mathematical  idea 
are  one." 

Martin  put  his  hands  on  the  parapet  and  stretched 
his  arms  so  that  he  stood  upright.  He  looked  at  the 
would-be  philosopher  and  said,  "  Over  and  under  in 
opposite  directions:  there  you  had  a  true  thought; 
that  is  the  sort  of  thing  I  admire,  but  I  myself  never 
illustrate  glimpses  into  eternity.  Over  and  under  in 
opposite  directions  is  enough;  I  shall  sleep  well  to- 
night.   Thank  you ;  we  have  something  in  common." 

The  man  who  had  spoken  felt  ashamed  of  himself, 
as  if  he  had  made  an  object  of  the  description  called 
applied  art. 

Martin  moved  and  began  to  gtt  into  his  car.  He 
felt  as  Napoleon  felt  when  he  got  into  his  carriage  after 


244  MARTIN  SCHULER 

a  successful  battle.  He  looked  at  his  watch  as  Napo- 
leon frequently  looked  at  his:  his  head  down,  the 
timepiece  in  his  right  hand. 

"  Twelve,"  he  said,  and  an  idea  came  into  his  head. 

"  You  Regensburgians,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  little 
behind  Berlin." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  police  constable,  "  the  clocks 
will  strike  midnight  soon." 

Martin  took  his  foot  off  the  step. 

"Does  the  river  cease  flowing  at  midnight?"  he 
said. 

The  police  official  answered  without  being  able  to 
help  himself.    "  But  no,  time  does  not  matter  to  it." 

Martin  got  into  the  car.  "  Good-by,"  he  said  to 
the  pedestrian  crowd.  "  To  the  Schwartz  Wald,"  he 
shouted  to  the  chauffeur. 

"  Adieu,  Herr  Diavolo! "  said  a  voice. 

Martin  looked  out  again.  "  Auf  Wiedersehen !  " 
he  cried,  and  everybody  roared  with  laughter  except 
the  philosopher,  who  was  trying  to  remember  the  exact 
words  he  had  used  to  this  prince  of  darkness,  in  order 
that  while  singing  his  own  praises  he  might  not  quote 
by  mistake  portions  which  he  wished  to  forget. 

The  car  left  Regensburg.  Martin  felt  the  approach 
of  the  mountains  and  forests.  After  midnight  the 
rain  began  again  to  pour  in  fierce  torrents.  As  they 
left  Regensburg  he  heard  the  hour  of  night  echo  from 
a  hundred  chimes.    The  clock  in  the  interior  of  the 


SCHWARZWALD  245 

car  answered  irritably  and  electrically  witfi  twelve 
wearisome  small  pings. 

"You  beast!"  said  Martin,  kicking  its  face  till  it 
broke  "  you  unsymphonic  parasite !  "  He  laughed  to 
himself  and  rolled  himself  into  comfort  on  his 
couch. 

The  car  advanced  southward  in  that  intense  black 
night.  The  French  chauffeur  had  in  his  mind  the 
whole  of  the  road  from  Berlin  to  his  destination.  Its 
chief  contours,  towns,  and  proportions  were  present  to 
^his  sight.  Like  a  narrow  white  nerve  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night  it  lay  before  him,  and  his  senses  were  all 
of  them  aware  of  the  familiarity  not  only  of  the  part 
he  had  just  traversed,  but  of  the  part  he  had  yet  to 
traverse.  He  was  interested  in  the  Grand  Prix.  He 
insisted  upon  driving  the  whole  way  in  order  to  estab- 
lish a  record,  and  the  Swedish  mechanic,  who  pre- 
ferred slumber  and  occasional  sweet  drafts  from  a 
bottle  of  cognac  to  straining  his  eyes  and  establishing 
records,  made  no  objection. 

In  the  woods  below  Regensburg,  Martin  opened  a 
window  of  the  car.  He  sat  close  beside  it  and  allowed 
the  wetness  to  strike  his  face.  The  woods  stood  silent 
in  the  merciless  downpouring  of  the  rain.  Black 
and  dark  were  the  caverns  of  the  trees  under  the 
boughs ;  a  wind  stirred,  and  in  a  long  series  sounds  of 
scattering  drops  ran  from  end  to  end  of  the  forest 
roads.    The  wind  passed,  and  again  all  was  silent  and 


246  MARTIN  SCHULER 

still,  save  for  the  endless  unrhythmic  pattering  of  the 
rain. 

The  motion  of  the  car  was  swift,  and  Martin  felt  in 
it  like  some  vague  adventurer  of  dreams.  They  passed 
through  the  woods  where  in  the  twilight  of  evening 
evil  beings  hunted  the  white  hart  with  hideous  cries 
and  with  savagery  caught  late-straying  village  girls 
for  a  prey;  where  charcoal-burners  dwelt  in  huts,  and 
in  the  evening  hours  gradually  became  transformed 
into  beneficent  old  dwarfs,  who,  with  leafy  heads  and 
eyes  inherited  from  fauns,  pried  about  to  guard  late 
goers;  where,  in  height  of  moonlight  nights,  fairies 
streamed  in  wreaths  among  the  boughs  singing  small 
drunken  chanties  and  making  lovers  who  heard  them 
mad  with  their  sounding  honey  and  music-making 
flowers.  They  passed  through  glades  where  in  the 
depth  of  night  darkness  lay  deeper  than  in  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  where  the  sound  of  human  foot,  or  the 
chime  of  bells,  or  fairies,  or  any  of  those  things  parti- 
cularly loved  by  man,  have  never  been  heard  or  seen 
It  is  the  open  spaces  of  the  forest  that  are  fearful. 
Here  there  is  a  void  that  seizes  upon  the  heart  and 
makes  the  mind  stop.  The  wanderer  shrinks  back 
into  the  shadows  where  it  is  warm,  and  there  are  rough 
trees  which  respond  to  the  sense  of  touch. 

To-night  no  ghosts  or  fairies,  beasts,  magicians  or 
late  travellers  were  on  the  prowl.  The  rain  killed 
everything  supernatural  with  its  wetness.     The  hills 


SCHWARZWALD  247 

with  their  castles,  the  terraced  vineyards  near  the  vil- 
lages, the  small  churches  and  wooden  houses  filled  with 
little  people  of  the  size  of  matches,  were  still,  silent, 
and  asleep.  In  his  imagination  this  was  Martin's 
view  of  the  world.  He  sat  at  the  window  as  the  car 
drove  past  hill  and  village,  over  bridges  and  again  into 
the  woods,  and  felt  that  the  world  was  on  a  very 
small  scale. 

The  French  chauffeur  had  much  the  same  view,  ex- 
cept that  for  him  everything  was  further  reduced  in 
order  to  accommodate  itself  to  the  dimensions  of  his 
half -inch  ordnance  map. 

Martin  slept  for  a  few  hours  again,  and  when  he 
awoke  the  heavy  rain  had  ceased  to  fall.  The  car  was 
winding  up  the  steef  roadways  of  the  Hartz  Moun- 
tains. It  was  still  dark,  but  the  chill  air  of  dawn  filled 
all  the  valleys,  and  a  wan  reflection  of  the  coming  day 
was  cast  up  from  behind  the  eastern  horizon.  Martin 
pulled  the  rugs  closer  around  him  and  changed  his  posi- 
tion, in  order  to  be  able  to  see  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
It  was  as  natural  for  him  as  it  is  for  most  living 
things  to  keep  himself  towards  the  sun.  Last  night  he 
had  sat  looking  out  of  the  car  in  the  direction  of  the 
west  and  at  dawn  he  changed  his  position  automatically 
eastwards. 

The  car  came  out  in  a  clearing  of  the  forest,  where 
the  timber  had  recently  been  felled.  The  logs  still 
lay  upon  the  ground.    The  pine  trees  stood  around  in  a 


248  MARTIN  SCHULER 

wide  circle  mourning  their  companions'  fall,  in  the  pale 
light  of  dawn  like  soldiers  upon  a  battlefield. 

Slowly  the  sky  became  grayer  and  the  forest  soft 
and  dark,  but  not  with  the  black  darkness  of  mid- 
night. Everything  was  unsubstantial,  decomposite, 
like  a  soft  lithograph,  like  a  world  of  millions  of  dimly 
colored  chalk  specks  set  together  in  flat  masses:  the 
darkest  green  forest,  the  fog-colored  grass  that  in  the 
widening  light  became  tinged  with  green,  the  road  an 
indefinite  soft  pale  streak,  the  fallen  logs  shadowy 
corpses  in  faint  red  uniforms.  Over  all  hung  the 
heavy  gray  clouds  that  in  the  west  were  still  black 
with  night  and  in  the  east  faded  into  the  day. 

Again  the  car  went  into  the  pines.  The  road  wound 
up  a  steep  place  in  the  hills,  and  when  it  came  out  upon 
a  crest  the  day  was  near  at  hand.  The  light  came 
at  long  intervals  in  jerks,  as  if  thin  films  slipped  off 
the  face  of  the  unrisen  sun  from  time  to  time.  A 
breeze  passed  over  the  earth  and  died  away.  Martin 
leaned  out  of  the  window.  The  dawn  had  come.  The 
forest  became  substantial,  the  grass  was  full  of  grass 
blades,  the  road  of  stones.  In  the  east  a  long  yellow 
rent  appeared  in  the  clouds,  which  began  to  move 
towards  the  west  with  those  curious  flat,  stiff  move- 
ments of  the  beginning  of  the  day.  The  rift  widened 
and  showed  the  blue  of  heaven.  Very  slowly  the 
clouds  crept  away  from  the  light,  like  a  host  of  old 
whales,  and  half  the  vault  of  heaven  became  opened 


SCHWARZWALD  249 

in  the  clear  upward  light  cast  by  the  rising  sun.  The 
turning  of  the  earth  became  perceptible  as  it  rolled 
over  into  the  east,  and  Martin  felt  the  instinct  of 
nations  to  climb  up  the  world  westward,  so  as  not  to 
be  pitched  into  the  abyss.  The  colors  of  the  earth 
revived,  birds  chirped  and  moved,  and  a  perfectly  clear 
cold  atmosphere  descended  from  the  height  of  the 
morning  upon  the  forest.  Martin  sighed;  his  soul 
filled  with  the  perfection  of  that  new  day,  unwarmed 
yet  by  the  passion  of  the  sun,  unwearied  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  existence.  He  stopped  the  car  at  a  high 
place,  and  got  out  to  enjoy  the  sensations  of  the  early 
hour.  He  was  stiff  and  tired  with  sitting,  but  presently 
he  regained  his  suppleness,  and  went  towards  a  place 
from  whence  sixty  or  seventy  miles  of  country  could 
be  seen  in  all  directions.  He  turned  himself  slowly 
around  like  the  hub  of  a  wheel,  and  swept  a  gigantic 
circle  with  his  gaze :  such  is  the  power  of  the  human 
mind,  that  he  saw  in  that  one  turn  all  and  everything 
contained  in  a  circle  nearly  four  hundred  miles  round. 
The  black,  wet  night  was  crawling  to  the  western  rim, 
while  in  the  east  the  silver  of  the  sun's  first  rays  was 
striking  upward  into  a  sky  of  amethyst  and  water- 
green  where  small  yellow  and  rose  clouds  drifted  like 
falling  flowers.  The  whole  expanse  of  heaven  was  in 
fairest  light. 

Before  the  gilt  sun  came  up  Martin  returned  to  the 
car:  he  had  no  desire  to  see  the  red  husband  of  dawn 


250  MARTIN  SCHULER 

ravish  her  beauty.  The  instant  of  the  day's  perfec- 
tion was  so  short  that  he  wished  to  prolong  it  by  shut- 
ting out  its  decay  from  his  sight.  The  car  drove  on, 
and  he  slept  again  like  a  cfrunken  white  carouser  on 
his  way  home  from  a  feast.  His  head  sunk  on  his 
breast,  his  hands  lay  on  each  side  of  him  at  the  ends 
of  his  loose  arms,  the  fingers  curled  inwards  and  up- 
wards as  if  they  held  vanished  rose  leaves;  his  feet 
were  crossed,  his  knees  wide  apart,  and  an  odor  of 
dank  human  breath,  of  cigars  and  wine  hung  about 
him.  For  all  that  his  face  had  the  expression  of  a 
sleeping  child,  with  pursed  lips  and  drooping  lashes 
and  his  dreams  were  foolish,  charming,  and  fairy-like. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ONE  day  Martin  Schiiler  sat  alone  in  his  beauti- 
ful villa  upon  the  shores  of  lake  Tittersee. 
Sophie  von  Sebaltz  had  returned  to  Berlin, 
and  he  felt  relieved.  Although  it  never  occurred  to 
him  that  he  was  tired  of  her,  for  she  made  no  demands 
upon  him  even  if  she  gave  him  nothing,  he  had  a  sense 
of  freedom  now  that  she  was  out  of  the  house.  He 
looked  grave  and  serious,  and  thought  that  now  at  last 
leisure  was  his  in  which  to  consider  where  to  turn  and 
what  to  do.  The  downfall  of  his  conceit  had  at  last 
brought  all  the  rubbish  in  his  mind  away  with  it.  He 
was  now  proud  and  humble,  competent  and  mature. 
Although  he  had  never  lacked  competency  there  had 
always  been  a  certain  air  of  easy  success  about  him. 
He  had  looked  successful;  now  he  no  longer  did. 

The  study  that  he  sat  in  had  been  designed  for  him 
by  Frederich  Morgensohn  and  carried  out  by  the 
Arthouseconstructors  Company.  Nothing  in  it  was 
incongruous.  Upon  the  black  and  gold  furniture  were 
black  and  purple  cushions  worked  by  a  clever  woman, 
the  artist  employee  of  the  company,  in  bunches  of 
conventionalized  sweet  williams  of  a  Teutonic  Poiret 
Stamp.    A  black  and  gold  chessboard  pattern  embel- 

9^1 


2Sa  MARTIN  SCHULER 

lished  the  frieze,  and  the  walls  were  decorated  with 
alternating  panels  of  gilt  paper  and  art  trees.  The 
black  wood  writing-table,  inlaid  with  a  sylvan  episode 
in  keeping  with  the  trees,  held  a  large  photograph  of 
Frau  von  Sebaltz,  especially  taken  at  Schuler's  request. 
Across  it  was  written  "To  my  dearest  friend!  1  !" 
followed  in  the  German  manner  with  several  exclama- 
tion marks.  The  composer  of  three  successful  light 
operas  sat  contemplating  it  without  seeing  it. 

The  weather  was  calm,  still,  and  mysterious.  Long 
clouds  lay  invisibly  in  the  heavens  and  gave  them  a 
funereal  darkness.  Pale  primrose  sky  showed  here  and 
there  in  streaks.  Outside  the  house,  ever5rwhere  and 
in  all  directions,  were  the  gloomy  trees  of  the  Black 
Forest.  They  crawled  from  south  and  west,  north  and 
east,  over  mountains  and  valleys,  around  lakes  and 
along  rivers.  It  seemed  that  they  were  all  walking  to  the 
beautiful  villa,  to  see  what  Herr  von  Schiiler  intended 
to  do  with  himself.  An  atmosphere  as  of  something 
extraordinary  pervaded  everything.  The  house  had  no 
garden,  but  an  artfence  of  heavy  and  simple  design 
kept  the  trees  from  stepping  upon  the  little  villa  and 
crushing  it  to  death. 

Martin  got  up  and  went  to  the  drawer  hi  whicH  Ke 
kept  interesting  objects  referring  to  the  past.  He 
sought  in  it  a  few  moments,  and  took  out  the  manu- 
script of  the  peahens.  It  was  still  tied  with  the  piece 
of  string  put  around  it  by  Werner.    To  bis  knowledge 


SCHWARZWALD  253 

no  hand  had  ever  undone  the  knot  since  Werner  made 
it.  Feeling  a  little  sentimental  and  a  little  curious,  he 
put  the  bundle  of  yellow  paper  to  his  nose.  It  had  the 
pleasant  odor  of  old  books.  He  smelled  it  again,  and 
the  smell  made  him  desire  to  open  it.  Very  curious,  he 
took  the  yellow,  frayed  bundle  to  the  writing-table  and 
unfastened  the  string.  The  sheets,  which  were  folded 
over  lengthways,  still  lay  together  from  the  long  habit 
of  nine  years.  He  ran  his  hand  up  the  inside  of  the 
middle  crease  to  flatten  them  out.  Werner's  hand- 
writing, neat,  small,  and  professional,  lay  before  him. 
It  was  so  many  years  since  he  had  seen  it  that  he  had 
no  recognition  of  it.  It  was  not  familiar  and  roused 
no  feelings,  but  the  fact  of  holding  it  in  his  hand 
made  him  recollect  how  much  his  technique  had  grown 
since  those  old  days,  what  power  and  what  mastery 
he  had  acquired  over  the  hundred  or  so  notes  in  human 
circulation,  what  delicious  harmonies  he  had  since  dis- 
covered. At  the  same  time  he  seemed  to  feel  that  in 
former  times  he  had  had  a  purer  inspiration,  a  clearer 
sense  of  poetry,  a  finer  charm,  a  greater  intellectual 
sincerity  than  had  ever  beautified  any  of  his  mature 
scores. 

He  sat  and  looked  across  his  large  writing-table  out 
of  the  window  in  a  dream.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  experienced  a  clear  vision  of  the  past,  or  had 
sought  to  remember  anything  out  of  it.  Up  to  now  the 
present  and  the  future  had  been  sufficient  for  him.    He 


254  MARTIN  SCHULER 

had  never  yet  drawn  upon  his  resources :  he  had  taken 
everything  out  of  the  air,  out  of  his  friends,  out  of 
the  incidents  of  his  Hfe  as  they  occurred. 

In  a  short  time  he  began  to  read  the  manuscript  of 
the  peahens. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MARTIN  put  down  the  manuscript  and  lay 
back  in  his  chair;  the  force  of  the  inspira- 
tion removed  his  thoughts;  and  he  felt  a 
contraction  in  the  front  part  of  his  head.  He  shut  his 
eyes,  hunched  up  his  shoulders,  and  threw  his  body 
violently  forward  so  that  his  elbows  rested  on  the 
table.  He  covered  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and  ran  the 
fingers  of  his  left  hand  up  into  his  forelock,  so  that  the 
palm  supported  his  head,  and  with  the  thumb  and  little 
finger  spanned  his  forehead  and  felt  the  contour  of 
his  brows.  The  shape  of  his  head  was  exceedingly 
pleasant:  at  each  temple  it  was  flat,  and  from  there 
curved  upward  and  outward  to  form  the  square  of 
his  forehead.  He  thought  that  creation  was  in  the 
forehead;  he  could  feel  the  effort  of  imagination  be- 
tween his  eyes ;  from  there  backwards  to  points  above 
his  ears  he  had  the  sensation  of  creation. 

He  did  not  think  out  what  use  he  should  make  of  the 
manuscript;  he  felt  that  he  wished  to  conceive  some- 
thing magnificent,  something  that  should  be  the  out- 
come of  all  his  experience,  finely  constructed  upon 
intersecting  arcs  or  upon  converging  lines  or  upon 
curves  of  balance.    He  gave  himself  a  climax,  a  point, 

255 


256  MARTIN  SCHULER 

and  again  shut  out  the  light  with  both  his  hands.  After 
a  few  minutes  he  felt  a  motion  rise,  burst,  and  break 
into  a  million  falls.  He  had  conceived  his  idea.  It 
was  not  expressible  in  words.  His  throat  was  tight, 
his  brain  contracted,  the  muscles  at  the  side  of  his  jaws 
were  distended  in  the  effort  of  clenching  his  teeth.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and,  without  thinking  or  flickering  his 
eyelids,  took  some  lined  paper  and  began  straight  away 
to  note  down  the  beginning  of  an  opera  in  music.  He 
put  it  all  down.  Very  slowly  he  set  the  idea  that  came 
out  of  his  mind  straight  down  on  paper  with  immacu- 
late notation.  He  paused  frequently,  his  eyes  half 
shut  as  if  he  were  focusing  something,  but  he  had  not 
a  single  image  or  sound  in  his  head.  His  hand  obeyed 
some  unknown  force  in  his  mind  that  had  its  seat  in 
the  middle  of  his  brows,  and  drew  pains  from  the  sides 
and  back  of  his  head.  After  a  time  his  consciousness 
returned  and  he  began  to  think. 

*'  The  Opera  House  is  large ;  it  will  be  full  of  specta- 
tors. There  will  be  a  large  orchestra  and  a  large  stage. 
I  myself  am  in  the  center  box;  there  are  lights,  there 
are  natural  limitations  " ;  and  his  well-trained  brain 
began  to  control  the  force  of  his  intellect  and  to  keep 
before  him  every  detail  of  a  finished  production.  From 
that  moment  he  wrote  nothing  without  having  always 
before  him  the  whole  of  the  finished  production.  He 
himself  was  a  spectator  of  his  own  work.  He  had 
never  heard  it  before,  and  knew  nothing  of  it  except 


SCHWARZWALD  257 

the  tendency  until  he  actually  put  his  hand  on  the 
paper.  Then  the  substance  slowly  came  into  being, 
with  the  utmost  labor  of  imagination,  but  perfect  in 
so  far  that  what  he  wrote  needed  almost  no  correc- 
tion. 

Never  in  his  life  did  he  think  out  anything  the  day 
or  week  before  he  wrote  it.  After  the  idea  had  been 
conceived — sometimes  as  a  faint  beating  of  the  heart, 
sometimes  as  a  moment  of  amazement  over  a  combina- 
tion of  colors,  sometimes  as  a  vague  dream  inspired  by 
two  thoughts,  a  few  words,  the  leaves  of  a  tree  or  a 
picture — he  let  it  vanish  until  the  materials  for  writing 
were  at  hand.  He  knew  that  to  write  directly  from 
inspiration  was  the  only  true  method.  To  write  from 
memory  of  the  thoughts  of  inspiration  was  to  lose  the 
force,  the  genius  and  beauty  of  the  conception.  "  I 
might  as  well  copy  another  man's  work,"  he  said  to 
himself. 

After  five  hours,  dazed  and  half  blind,  with  the 
vision  of  an  opera  house  full  of  wings,  scenery,  dress- 
ing rooms,  orchestra,  and  seats  still  perfectly  distinct 
in  his  mind,  he  put  down  his  pen.  The  first  episode 
was  finished — the  opening  of  the  whole  thing  was 
written  down :  grand,  subdued,  mysterious,  and  vague, 
with  a  vagueness  that  was  definitely  constructed.  The 
beginning  of  a  new  opera  had  been  made.  His  eyes 
still  half  shut,  Martin  got  up  and  went  to  the  window, 
saw  nothing  from  it  but  blue  lines,  and  walked  round 


258  MARTIN  SCHULER 

the  room,  pausing  now  and  then  to  put  his  hand  on 
some  piece  of  furniture  and  support  himself.  Soon  he 
threw  himself  into  a  chair  and,  shutting  his  eyes,  lost 
himself  again  in  the  depths  of  a  black  night.  Uncon- 
sciously he  felt  his  head,  of  which  he  had  become 
enamored,  and,  assuming  one  after  another  a  variety 
of  attitudes,  went  through  perfection  in  ecstasy  and 
darkness.  Probably  a  spectator  would  have  laughed 
to  see  him  take  up  those  marvellous  attitudes,  unless 
he  had  been  a  genius  also.  Each  one  contained  an  idea 
of  the  true  line  inspired  by  the  extraordinary  complete- 
ness of  his  unconscious  thought. 

Presently  he  came  to  himself  and  a  long  wave  of  joy 
flooded  his  heart :  he  was  young  again,  he  was  twenty, 
but  full  of  experience,  omniscient,  and  powerful.  The 
wild  force  of  his  imagination  drew  him  out  of  himself, 
and  he  was  compelled  to  go  out  of  the  house  down  to 
the  lake  to  stand,  silent  and  exulting,  and  watch  the 
evening  fall.  The  uneasiness  that  from  time  to  time 
had  disturbed  his  charming  efforts  of  the  past  nine 
years,  his  comprehensive  observation  and  his  technical 
perfection,  and  the  last  terrible  catastrophe  of  realiza- 
tion, broke  in  upon  him  and  tore  the  exultation  out  of 
his  heart. 

"  T  am  complete  and  done  for,'*  he  cried,  and,  going 
quicklv  indoors  ae^ain.  shouted  for  Wolf. 

Wolf  hurried  to  him  instantlv. 

"  Wolf,"  he  said,  taking  hold  of  his  coat  fiercely, 


SCHWARZWALD  259 

"look  at  that,  look  at  it;  inform  me  if  there  is  any 
hope."  Wolf  looked  at  the  fragment,  but  not  having 
the  power  of  imagining  the  nature  of  a  mountain  from 
a  small  stone  oif  it,  was  bewildered. 

Martin  came  towards  him  again,  and  again  seized 
his  clothes. 

"What!"  he  shouted,  "What!  Have  you  not 
formed  an  opinion  ?  " 

As  quickly  as  lightning  Wolf  put  an  expression  of 
awe  upon  his  face  and,  turning  around,  said : 

"  That  is  magnificent." 

"  Do  not  judge  me  by  the  old  rubbish,"  cried  Mar- 
tin; "  do  not  lie  to  me." 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  answered  the  secretary,  who  had 
a  very  high  power  of  simulating  enthusiasm. 

If  Martin  had  been  in  a  less  wild  state  he  would 
have  seen  through  him,  but  instead  he  appeared  satis- 
fied, and  stretching  his  arms  wide  said : 

"  It  is  simply  beautiful.  It  is  my  boyish  conception. 
I  have  recaptured  it:  in  those  days  I  was  a  genius. 
Werner's  poem  has  preserved  me  for  myself.  I  never 
read  it  until  now." 

Wolf  gazed  at  his  master  with  worship. 

"Oh,  Wolf!"  he  cried,  picking  up  the  manuscript 
of  the  peahens  and  thrusting  it  under  the  secretary's 
nose,  "  smell  it,  smell  the  musty  leaves.  How  long 
have  they  lain  in  the  drawer!  God  in  hell!  I  can 
remember  all  those  old  days.     Help  me,  dear  Wolf. 


26o  MARTIN  SCHULER 

The  little  episode  of  nine  years  is  over.  Wolf,  Wolf, 
do  you  help  me !  "  Wolffs  eyes  shone  with  genuine  and 
perfect  adoration,  ^nd  he  said  with  overflowing  tears 
in  his  voice,  "  How  wonderful  you  are." 

Martin  knelt  upon  the  writing-chair,  and  set  his 
face  close  to  Wolf's  who  instinctively  stroked  his 
hair. 

Martin,  whose  eyes  were  full  of  a  curious  inhuman 
light,  said,  "  Keep  my  feet  upon  the  earth  for  me,  even 
if  my  head  is  among-  the  stars.** 

Never  in  all  his  life  had  Wolf  seen  anything  to  be 
compared  with  Martin*s  expression :  it  drew  the  whole 
of  his  soul  out  of  him  into  his  face.  With  a  most 
extraordinary  uplifted  heart  he  looked  straight  into 
Martin's  eyes  with  all  his  devotion  and  humility,  and 
understood  the  power  of  his  master's  genius. 

"  The  stars  are  effervescent  round  my  head :  I  fiear 
them  bubbling  in  my  ears.  Oh,  Wolf !  '*  he  said,  "  How* 
marvellous  are  the  true  far  wanderings  of  a  young  man, 
and  the  mad  dreams  of  our  youthful  years.  I  am  now 
returned  to  the  dawn  of  my  life.  T  was  a  wonderful 
young  man,  but  T  am  not  going  to  be  less  wonderful 
nor  less  beautiful  now.  The  dreamer  and  the  experi- 
enced cynic  are  here  together;  T  know  all,  I  can  do 
cver5i:hing.  It  takes  a  lifetime  to  perfect  a  work  of 
sltI  such"  as  I  Have  dreamed  of.'* 

The  emotional  crisis  was  over.  Wolf  stood  patiently 
listening  to  what  might  be  said,  and  Martin,  taking  up 


SCHWARZWALD  261 

the  manuscript  again,  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice : 
"  I  am  fortunate ;  Werner  caught  me  and  preserved 
me  in  this  lyric."  He  smelt  it  again,  as  if  it  contained 
all  the  perfume  of  the  woods  of  Heidelberg,  and  the 
smell  of  himself  in  his  one-and-twentieth  year. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THAT  night  after  dinner  Martin  went  out.  He 
seemed  to  disappear  into  the  forest.  When  he 
had  gone  Wolf  could  not  believe  that  he  would 
ever  come  back,  and  walked  in  a  nervous  rage  from  the 
top  of  the  house  to  the  bottom.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
no  person  intimately  associated  with  Martin  Schiller 
could  possibly  avoid  becoming  enslaved  by  him.  He 
went  into  the  art  study  and  arranged  those  papers 
which  he  knew  were  not  sacred,  he  went  into  the 
dressingf-room  and  hated  the  valet  who  looked  after 
the  clothes.  He  walked  into  the  bedroom.  A  large 
portrait  of  Sophie  von  Sebaltz  stood  on  the  table  beside 
the  peasant  art  bed.  Another,  more  elaborate,  tinted 
after  the  photographer's  idea  of  color,  hung  on  the 
bare  wooden  wall  surmounted  by  an  old  laurel  wreath, 
a  remnant  of  the  pala  performance  of  "  The  Saddest 
Singer."  He  stood  a  moment  beside  the  table  in  the 
window  where  the  personal  knick-knacks  lay,  and 
desired  very  much  to  take  away  something  as  a 
memento,  for  he  knew  that  it  was  very  unlikely  that 
Martin  would  ever  give  him  anything. 

His  simple  personality  was  capable  of  very  strong 
feelings,  and  in  particular  he  had  the  bitterest  sense  of 

362 


SCHWARZWALD  263 

rivalry.  He  hated  Sophie  with  the  whole  of  his  emo- 
tion of  hate.  She  seemed  neither  good  nor  beautiful 
to  him :  he  thought  her  on  the  contrary  selfish,  spoiled, 
petty,  and  vain.  Although  he  hated  fiercely,  in  the 
silence  that  he  had  so  much  of,  all  Martin's  friends  ex- 
cept the  Countess  Ardstein,  he  very  much  wanted  a 
companion  to  whom  he  could  communicate  his  senti- 
ments and  who  would  share  them.  At  the  art  villa  his 
passion  of  jealousy  was  three  times  fiercer  than  in 
Berlin.  His  position  in  Berlin  was  so  inferior  to  that 
of  Schiller's  other  associates  that  it  seemed  irrational 
to  be  over  angry,  but  here  he  felt  himself  proprietor 
of  loneliness,  and  any  third  person  whose  presence 
made  his  absence  from  the  dinner-table  and  the  private 
smoking-room  necessary  was  a  maddening  intruder. 
He  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time  with  Martin,  who 
found  loneliness,  in  those  moments  when  he  was  not  at 
work,  very  unpleasant. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  in  his  master's  room,  and 
asked  himself  if  there  had  ever  been  so  extraordinary 
a  person  as  Martin  Schiiler,  one  whose  brutality  was 
absolutely  negatived  by  the  most  wonderful  charm; 
for  he  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  most  charming  and  fas- 
cinating man  that  could  possibly  have  existed.  Wolf's 
face  lost  its  look  of  everyday  life,  and  all  that  was  best 
in  him  came  to  the  surface :  such  small  share  of  divinity 
as  he  had  made  a  faint  halo  in  the  dusk  of  the  room. 
He  was  very  tired.    The  demand  made  upon  him  that 


a64  MARTIN  SCHULER 

evening  to  simulate  enthusiasm  seemed  to  have  taken 
his  vitality.  He  was  uneasy  when  he  thought  of  that 
manuscript  downstairs.  He  could  not  believe,  in  vSpite 
of  his  belief  in  its  creator,  that  it  was  anything  rare. 
His  imagination  could  not  create  extraordinary  phan- 
toms of  unproduced  works.  He  had  to  see  the  whole 
to  believe  in  it. 

He  sat  in  the  chair  upstairs  lost  in  thoughts  which 
were  human  and  simple.  His  hands  were  folded  in 
front  of  him,  his  face  stuck  forward,  his  head  a  little 
on  one  side.  The  muscles  of  his  face  were  relaxed  as 
if  in  sleep.  Presently  he  got  up,  shook  himself  like  a 
dog,  and  went  downstairs  again.  Martin  was  standing 
in  the  doorway  that  led  out  of  the  house.  At  any  rate 
he  had  come  back  this  time. 

Martin  turned  around  as  he  heard  his  steps,  and 
said : 

"You  read  pleasantly,  Wolf;  read  to  me.  Let  us 
sit  here  and  read." 

Wolf  went  towards  the  door  of  the  smoking-room. 
"  What  do  you  prefer  ?  *'  he  said. 

Martin  walked  over  to  a  cane  chair  and  sat  down. 

"  Something  soothing,  something  accommodating : 
Ibsen,  I  think,  or  Hans  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales." 

Wolf  was  not  in  the  mood  to  smile  at  the  idea  that 
Rosmersholm  or  Hedda  Gabler  were  particularly  sooth- 
ing: they  seemed  soothing  to  him,  because  he  under- 
stood Martin's  meaning.     He  went  into  the  library 


SCHWARZWALD  265 

and  came  back  with  seven  or  eight  volumes.  He  sat 
down. 

"  You  do  not  like  Tolstcw  ?  *'  he  asked,  bending  over 
the  pile  of  books  which  he  had  put  on  the  floor. 

Martin  had  lit  a  cigarette.  "  What,  for  instance  ? 
Tolstoi  seems  to  have  written  about  a  thousand  books." 

"  *  The  Cossacks/  "  said  Wolf,  picking  up  a  small 
volume. 

"Is  it  soothing?" 

"  Yes  " — Wolf  was  conscious  of  altering  the  mean- 
ing of  words — "  it  is  soothing." 

"  Very  well " — Martin  lay  further  back  in  his  chair 
— "  but  first  I  choose  to  be  read  the  *  Ice  Maiden.'  That 
is  what  I  have  been  thinking  of  all  day." 

What  had  occurred  to  him  in  the  forest  Wolf  could 
not  guess,  only  he  had  a  sensation  that  Martin  was 
changed,  that  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  man  of  the  world. 
It  was  not  because  he  asked  for  fairy  stories  to  be  read 
to  him  that  he  seemed  changed ;  it  was  partly  because 
his  manner  was  different  and  his  appearance  a  little 
less  brilliant.  He  seemed  to  have  become  less  hard, 
less  vivacious,  less  energetic.  It  would  have  surprised 
Wolf,  but  he  could  not  have  said  why,  if  Martin  had 
broken  into  one  of  his  frequent  irrational  bursts  of 
sarcasm,  or  said  anything  witty.  A  vague  fear  seized 
upon  him  that  he  was  ill,  and  he  could  hardly  induce 
himself  to  find  the  pages  of  the  Swiss  story. 

"  Well,  the  '  Ice  Maiden,'  my  old  Wolf,"  said  Martin 


266  MARTIN  SCHULER 

impatiently.  "  Read  slowly  the  descriptions  of  the 
scenery,  especially  those  parts  referring  to  the  Bernese 
Oberland.  I  shall  never  go  there  again.  I  believe  it  is 
seven  years  since  I  was  there.  Have  you  been  to 
Switzerland  ?  '*  He  spoke  slowly,  and  seemed  tired 
and  dreamy. 

"  I  went  once  when  I  was  at  Cambridge  in  England, 
for  winter  sports,"  answered  Wolf,  and  he  got  up  to 
turn  on  the  electric  light. 

**  Leave  them  a  little  longer,"  said  Martin;  and  Wolf 
sat  down  again  patiently.     ^ 

"  You  have  never  been  there  in  June?  " 

"Never." 

"  You  have  never  smelled  the  torrent  of  the  Jungf  rau 
swollen  with  melting  snow,  nor  seen  the  flowers  in 
the  woods  at  Interlaken?" 

"No." 

"  Nor  ever  sat  behind  the  monastery  church  with 
your  girl?  I  had  a  girl  in  those  days." 

Wolf,  whose  heart  had  frequently  been  touched, 
was  sympathetic;  he  agreed  with  Martin's  unspoken 
thought  that  Sophie  was  not  to  be  classed  with  the 
girls  of  romance. 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  continued  Martin ;  "  I  loved  to  the 
exclusion  of  everything  else :  I  certainly  wasted  a  whole 
year  on  love." 

Wolf  moved  a  little  nearer  to  him;  it  was  ghostly 
and  queer  in  the  darkness  of  that  forest  house.   Remi- 


.  SCHWARZWALD  267 

niscences  always  made  him  apprehensive  of  phantoms 
in  which  he  did  not  believe. 

"  I  do  not  care  for  any  of  that  sort  of  thing  now. 
I  find  my  heart  is  as  cold  as  water.  Affection  and 
sympathy  are  worth  passion  a  thousand  times  over; 
passion  is  nothing  unless  you  are  twenty.  Now  read 
to  me,  read  to  me;  read  with  a  shaded  light  that  I  may 
lie  in  the  dark,  and  know  again  the  whole  of  those 
days  at  Lauterbrunnen  and  beside  Lake  Thun." 

Wolf  did  as  he  was  told  and  began  to  read,  and 
Martin,  having  lit  a  cigar,  lay  back  into  the  brown 
shadows  and  fell  to  dreaming  of  his  new  work,  until 
the  murmuring  sound  of  Wolf's  voice  sent  him  to 
sleep. 

Never  again  did  he  discuss  himself  with  anybody: 
introspection  and  self -dissection  were  not  proper  to 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  next  morning  Martin  was  himself  again 
spruce,  well-brushed,  and  handsome.  The  night 
had  been  passed  in  pleasant  slumber.  At  ten 
o'clock  he  sat  down  again  to  continue  his  work  of  the 
day  before.  He  worked  all  day.  That  evening  he 
rolled  about  on  a  couch  unable  to  find  repose.  He  was 
exhausted.  The  following  morning  he  rose  dazed, 
and,  scarcely  troubling  to  eat,  went  straight  to  his 
writing.  Again  he  wrote  all  day  and  part  of  the  night. 
For  two  months  he  wrote  incessantly,  taking  hardly 
any  sleep,  eating  when  he  could  reach  food  with  his 
hand,  and  put  it  into  his  mouth  without  thinking.  His 
eyes  became  glazed  and  he  spoke  to  nobody.  Wolf 
kept  his  friends  away  from  the  villa,  and  had  the 
pleasure  of  warning  Sophie  not  to  come  near  the  place, 
as  Martin  would  not  see  her.  For  two  months  Martin 
refrained  from  human  intercourse,  for  two  months 
the  trees  of  the  forests  saw  nothing  of  him ;  his  spare 
moments  were  spent  upon  his  bed,  which  he  had  had 
carried  into  the  art  study,  the  rest  of  the  day  in  dream- 
ing and  putting  down  notes. 

His  nights  were  passed  in  exhausted  sleep  full  of 
dreams  and  visions.  Frequentlv  he  found  himself 
lying  upon  a  black  rock  at  the  bottom  of  a  well  of 
flames  a  thousand  feet  high.   They  flared  upward  from 

a68 


SCHWARZWALD  269 

under  the  rock  like  long  vermilion  grass  and  went 
higher  than  he  could  imagine  into  the  cold  air  of  night. 
He  lay  awake  in  the  dark  and  watched  them  around 
him,  straight  up  like  walls,  moving  like  the  swift 
ground  under  an  express  train,  but  always  perpendicu- 
lar. He  had  the  sensation  of  being  pale  and  white, 
and  of  feeling  his  body  with  pity.  He  was  sorry  for 
himself.  He  raised  his  head  a  little  and  the  flames 
vanished,  the  cold  night  came  around  him  and  he  shiv- 
ered. He  wanted  the  blessed  flaring  upwards  to  begin 
again,  to  charm  away  the  still,  horrible  silence  of  the 
room.  He  lay  down  again,  and  no  sooner  was  he  com- 
fortable than  an  irresistible  thought  came  to  him,  and 
he  was  forced  to  get  out  of  his  bed,  turn  on  the  electric 
light,  and,  blinking  with  the  glare,  sit  down  at  his  table 
and  write  until  the  light  had  become  pale  in  the  flooding 
sunshine  of  morning.  Time  passed  rapidly.  Three 
hours  were  like  three  minutes,  and  at  the  end  of  a  day 
he  could  not  understand  why  he  felt  so  exhausted, 
because  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  neither  made  an 
effort  nor  worked  hard. 

Sometimes  he  fell  asleep  at  his  writing-table  about 
two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon ;  sometimes  he  would  look 
for  Wolf,  and  sit  in  his  company  without  saying  a  word 
until  Wolf  became  morbid  and  felt  creepy.  Sometimes 
he  rushed  to  his  library  and,  taking  twenty  books  of 
the  most  varied  description,  would  lie  upon  his  bed 
looking  at  them.     Books  of  pictures  he  particularly 


270  MARTIN  SCHULER 

favored,  but  also  books  of  travel,  catalogs,  dictionaries, 
and  biographies.     Poetry  he  did  not  read.     It  might 
be  said  that  he  had  never  read  a  word  of  poetry.    What 
he  found  in  those  books  one  cannot  say:  mere  words, 
mere  sights,  mere  isolated  sentences  probably  caught 
his  eye  and  stimulated  his  imagination.     Kaulbach's 
illustrations  of  Goethe's  works  pleased  him.   He  would 
sit  for  hours  looking  minutely  into  the  engraved  photo- 
graph facsimiles.    Whether  he  found  rest  in  the  care- 
fully drawn  pictures  of  heroines,  complete  with  the 
most  accurate  accessories,  or  whether  he  found  romance 
in  the  beautiful  young  women  and  the  godlike  young 
men,  it  is  impossible  to  judge.     He  gazed  most  fre- 
quently upon  the  representation  of  a  princess  playing 
chess.    The  young  man  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the 
curtains  with  his  arms  folded  seemed  to  him  a  prince. 
He  adored  the  shepherd  in  the  second  plate,  pursuing 
the   angry  shepherdess,   and   the  lovesick   Dorothea 
embracing  her  lover  in  the  vineyard.     His  mind  was 
entranced  and  delighted  with  the  completeness  and 
quality  of  the  whole  volume  of  plates.     He  had  no 
idea  to  what  the  pictures  referred;  he  never  read  the 
text   accompanving  them,   much  less  the   works   of 
Goethe.    Each  picture  for  him  was  a  story,  wonderful 
and  perfectlv  satisfactory.    Probably  he  did  not  know 
bad  art  from  good,  certainly  he  would  have  found 
Greek  vases  detestable:  representations  of  voluptuous 
nature,  bright  colors,  beautiful  finish,  this  was  his  idea 


SCHWARZWALD  271 

of  what  pleased  the  eye.  Probably  he  himself  was  able 
to  supply  all  the  elemental  necessities  of  his  music, 
the  balance  and  the  restraint,  and  looked  to  outside 
things  for  an  idea  of  technical  finish,  of  natural  beauty 
and  romance. 

Kaulbach's  pictures  satisfied  some  need ;  he  got  from 
them  something  perfectly  necessary.  Poetry  or  high 
art  would  probably  have  surfeited  him,  he  found  no 
need  to  seek  expression  of  those  things  in  admiration, 
he  neither  knew  nor  did  not  know  that  his  work,  as 
he  put  it  down,  possessed  certain  qualities.  He  was 
not  conscious  whether  it  answered  the  requirements  of 
the  most  exalted  art.  Never  having  considered  these 
things  he  knew  nothing  about  them.  His  one  idea 
was  a  slow  upward  motion  bursting  at  the  end  into  a 
million  falls.  Like  the  clear  picture  of  the  finished 
production,  the  idea  remained  in  his  head  the  whole 
of  the  two  months.  One  day  he  worked  for  twenty 
hours,  till  the  whole  of  his  blood  seemed  to  be  break- 
ing away  out  of  his  body.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he 
finished  the  end  of  his  last  idea,  and  sat  for  some 
minutes  in  dazed  silence. 

Suddenly,  in  spite  of  his  haggard  appearance,  a  look 
of  youth  came  over  his  face,  and  leaping  up  he  went 
into  the  forest.  He  went  a  long  way,  and  at  the  end 
ley  down  and  slept.  Joy  filled  him.  He  slept  in  the 
midst  of  joy.  The  first  terrible  and  great  effort  to- 
wards a  fine  work  had  been  made — the  conception  had 
become  an  infant.    He  had  it  now  in  his  arms,  as  :t 


272  MARTIN  SCHULER 

were.  Without  considering  the  days  ahead  of  him,  he 
lay  under  the  pines  in  the  satisfaction  of  a  glorious 
accomplishment. 

The  following  day  Martin  spent  in  tying  together 
his  sheets  of  manuscript,  and  in  making  delicate  cor- 
rections with  the  most  careful  writing.  His  writing 
as  a  rule  was  horrible,  but  he  made  those  corrections  in 
a  hand  as  beautiful  as  a  child's  in  its  tenth  year.  After- 
wards, with  pleasure  as  childish  as  his  writing,  he  cut 
out  the  superfluous  portions  of  Werner's  poem  with 
brackets  of  red  ink.  With  a  feeling  akin  to  sacrilege, 
that  he  enjoyed  very  much,  he  made  marks  on  Wer- 
ner's manuscript.  He  never  marked  books ;  he  thought 
it  a  useless  habit,  and  had  not  personally  sufficient 
courage  to  do  it.  He  made  two  holes  in  the  side  of 
his  papers  and  threaded  through  them  a  piece  of  scarlet 
ribbon  off  an  old  box  of  sweets.  He  then  with  care 
put  the  manuscript  of  words  upon  the  top  of  therr*, 
and  tied  them  round  with  some  string.  The  accumu- 
lated mass  of  rubbish  on  his  table  covered  with  scrib- 
bles, sketches,  blots,  and  false  starts  he  swept  on  to  the 
floor,  and  putting  the  bundle  of  papers  in  a  special 
drawer,  rang  for  his  valet.  When  the  man  appeared, 
he  said,  "  Tidy  the  room." 

Then  he  went  into  the  outer  room  and,  calling  to 
jWolf,  who  thought  that  his  life  would  end  in  the 
silence  of  that  house,  surprised  him  by  shouting, 
**  Order  me  the  car :  I  am  going  to  Berlin." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

HE  drove  straight  to  the  house  of  the  Countess 
von  Ardstein.     She  was  fortunately  in. 
"  My  dear/'  she  cried,  as  he  ran  to  embrace 
her,  "  how  delightful  to  see  you;  how  ill  you  look." 

"  I  do  not  feel  ill/'  answered  Martin,  kissing  her 
again.     "  I  have  come  to  tell  you  good  news." 

For  some  reason  unknown  to  herself  she  was 
startled.  She  put  up  her  hand  in  apprehension,  and 
stood  for  a  second  held  by  a  fear. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  and  looked  around  at 
an  old  family  portrait  for  the  sake  of  companionship. 

Martin  unbuttoned  his  great  coat,  with  the  Astra- 
khan collar,  and  from  the  inner  breast  pocket  produced 
the  tidy  packet  of  white  papers.  His  heart  seemed  to 
dance  all  over  him  as  he  held  it  out  to  her.  She  did 
not  take  it,  but  looked  at  him.  He  appeared  to  be 
laughing. 

"  Take  it,"  he  said ;  "  it  is  the  idea  of  my  new  opera ; 
it  is  ancient  and  new  and  sacred  to  me." 

The  Countess  understood  why  she  had  been  fright- 
ened. The  news  was  evidently  something  out  of  the 
way  and  terrifying. 

"It  is  yours  for  twenty- four  hours,"  he  said;  "at 
the  end  of  that  time  I  am  going  back  to  my  home." 

273 


274  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Up  till  then  his  house  in  the  Black  Forest  had  never 
been  considered  as  a  home. 

She  untied  the  string,  staring  at  him,  and  repeated 
twice :  "  My  dearest." 

"  Don't  lose  the  leaves  of  the  written  portion ;  I 
have  a  very  great  sentiment  about  it."  Martin  evi- 
dently did  not  consider  the  notation  of  the  music  as 
written. 

Countess  von  Ardstein  burst  into  tears.  She  had  no 
reason  for  crying  except  a  sensation  of  amazement. 
Martin  had  never  had  a  very  great  sentiment  about 
anything  before.  That,  however,  was  not  what  caused 
her  to  weep,  but  she  remarked  it.  The  room  seemed 
filled  with  a  peculiar  kind  of  smoke,  and  a  soundless 
vibration  hit  against  her  ears,  as  of  one  shouting  so 
slowly  as  to  cause  no  actual  noise.  She  had  the  same 
feeling  as  a  distant  spectator  suffers  between  the  sight 
of  an  ax  striking  upon  a  tree  and  the  hearing  of  the 
sound  of  the  blow.  She  took  a  lace  handkerchief  out 
of  a  flowered  ribbon  bag  and  wiped  her  thin  nose.  Her 
lorgnon  caught  in  her  sleeve  as  she  raised  her  arm, 
and  tore  a  bit  off  a  lace  frill. 

She  looked  very  old  suddenly  to  Martin:  at  least 
seventy  years  old,  and  he,  on  the  contrary,  felt 
eighteen. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  said  tenderly. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  answered  the  Countess  with  a 
vulgar  sniff,  "  I  do  not  know.     I  think  you  are  ex- 


SCHWARZWALD  275 

traordinary.  Last  time  I  saw  you  with  your  mistress 
you  were  a  gay  man  of  the  world.  I  could  have  some 
fun  with  you.  Now,  my  dear  lad,  you  remind  one  of 
a  genius." 

The  Countess  had  not,  to  her  knowledge,  seen  a 
genius,  but  she  spoke  as  if  they  were  a  class  which 
she  inspected  from  time  to  time. 

"  Well,  read  it,"  said  Martin  after  a  minute  in  some 
irritation,  **  even  if  you  sit  up  all  night,  and  after- 
wards speak  to  nobody  of  it,  unless  it  is  to  Hirchner. 
Read  it,  get  somebody  to  play  it,  play  it  yourself.  I 
am  going  to  Sophie.  To-morrow  night  at  this  time  I 
will  call  for  it." 

He  disappeared.  Countess  von  Ardstein  sat  up  all 
night  obediently. 

Martin  himself  went  to  Sophie's  house.  She  was 
giving  a  dinner  party.  He  ordered  the  servant  to  show 
him  into  the  dining-room.  There  everybody  sat  feast- 
ing. Several  people  rose  as  he  entered,  and  cried, 
"  Hoch !  there  is  Martin  Schiiler." 

Sophie,  whose  back  was  towards  the  door,  jumped 
up  in  a  passion  of  irrational  fright.  Martin,  still  but- 
toned up  in  his  great  coat,  came  a  step  into  the  room. 
Sophie  put  down  her  napkin,  and  with  the  other  hand 
pulled  the  skirt  of  her  dress  a  little  out  of  the  way  of 
her  feet,  and  with  a  graceful  and  sudden  movement 
ran  towards  him,  and  put  her  arm  around  his  neck. 

She  kissed  him  and  began  to  purr  over  him. 


376  MARTIN  SCHULER 

"  You  delicious  creature !  **  he  murmured.  Her  phy- 
sical movements  always  enraptured  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  she  asked;  "  what?  ** 

He  led  her  to  the  table,  and  taking  the  chair  next 
to  her,  which  had  been  vacated  by  a  charming  young 
man  of  twenty,  sat  down  beside  her  and  held  her 
hands. 

"  I  have  come  to  Berlin  for  one  night,"  he  answered. 

"  How  pale  you  are,"  she  said,  looking  at  his  face, 
still  frightened.  "  Why,  you  are  completely  changed. 
The  look  in  your  eyes  is  quite  changed.  My  dearest 
Martin — I  do  not  believe  that  is  your  name."  The 
young  man  who  had  vacated  the  chair,  and  who  was 
standing  behind  it,  leaned  a  little  forward  and  said : 

"  It  is  nice  to  see  you  again,  Herr  Schiiler.  Berlin 
has  lost  something  by  your  departure." 

Martin  looked  up  at  him,  and  the  young  man  felt 
extremely  foolish  and  small.  The  look  of  openness 
and  power  in  Schiller's  face  made  him  take  a  step 
back. 

Sophie  pressed  his  hands,  and  asked  him  whether 
he  was  glad  to  see  her,  and  he  whispered  that  he 
would  be  glad  to  see  her  alone.  By  some  means  she 
made  a  sign  to  Count  von  Hansen,  and  got  him  to 
whisper  to  the  guests  that  their  early  departure  would 
be  tactful.  As  dinner  was  at  an  end,  they  rose  and 
silently  went  out  of  the  room. 

Sophie  began  to  tremble,  and  said : 


SCHWARZWALD  SI77 

"What  is  it,  Martin,  what  is  it?" 

"Nothing,'*  said  Martin,  taking  her  in  his  arms. 
"  I  want  you." 

"  I  am  never  coming  back  to  Berlin ;  I  am  going 
to  work  at  my  villa;  I  am  probably  going  to  work 
for  years.  You  will  come  to  me  when  you  feel  in- 
clined, will  you  not?  " 

Sophie  stroked  his  face  and  kissed  him.  She  was 
not  frightened  of  him  any  longer — the  renewal  of 
their  former  relationship  had  taken  away  her  fear; 
on  the  contrary,  she  felt  that  he  was  making  a  demand 
upon  her  and  asking  something  that  he  was  half  afraid 
he  would  not  get.  Like  many  women  whose  minds 
are  not  very  great,  she  imagined  that  persons  who 
asked  things  of  her  were  less  than  she. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  therefore,  "  I  will  always  be 
near  you  when  you  want  me." 

He  fell  asleep,  but  Sophie,  the  melodramatic  fright 
of  the  evening  having  been  dissipated,  now  for  the 
first  time  completely  ceased  to  fear  Martin,  and  with 
the  end  of  her  fear  came  the  end  of  her  passion.  She 
was  not  addicted  to  looking  after  little  boys.  The 
sentiments  attached  to  the  thought  of  being  the  faith- 
ful mistress  of  the  strange  man  beside  her  were  strong 
enough  however  to  make  her  willing  to  go  to  that  villa 
in  the  forest  and  look  after  him  from  time  to  time. 
The  compensating  joy  of  proprietorship  almost  made 
up  for  the  lost  joy  of  being  passionately  desired.    Thus 


278  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Sophie  approached  as  near  as  she  was  able  to  the  tran- 
quil pleasures  of  marriage. 

The  next  day  Martin  ordered  her  to  come  with  him 
to  the  Black  Forest.  In  the  evening  they  got  in  his 
car  and  drove  to  the  house  of  the  Countess  von  Ard- 
stein.  Martin  left  Sophie  outside,  and  ran  upstairs  in 
his  overcoat  without  a  hat  as  he  had  done  the  evening 
before. 

The  Countess  was  in.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
crying  all  night.  He  went  up  to  her  and,  feeling  ex- 
tremely uneasy,  said,  "Well?''  and  put  out  his  hand. 

She  put  out  her  hands  and,  gathering  he^-self 
together,  went  up  to  him  and  shook  her  head  in  amaze- 
ment. He  laughed  and  repeated  "  Well?  "  She  went 
back  to  a  table,  and  took  the  papers  out  of  a  drawer. 
They  were  still  in  immaculate  order.  She  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  speak.  He  had  never  seen  her  moved  with 
feeling  before.    He  was  very  self-conscious. 

He  took  the  papers  from  her  and  buttoned  them 
in  his  coat.  To  the  Countess  five  minutes  seemed  to 
have  elapsed  since  he  gave  them  to  her. 

He  put  a  bitter  expression  on  his  face  and  said  with 
a  cynical  smile: 

"  Well,  are  they  not  good  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask,"  said  the  Countess,  making  a  pitiful 
face  at  him,  and  again  turning  away. 

He  walked  after  her,  and  took  her  by  the  shoulders. 


SCHWARZWALD  279 

"  You  know !  "  he  cried  roughly,  turning  her  around. 
"  I  command  you  to  speak  to  me." 

"  Wonderful,"  she  gasped. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  a  thousand 
times. 

"  I  trust  you,"  he  said,  and  left  her.  He  went  away 
without  turning  back,  and  she  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  dumbfounded  with  her  good  fortune. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IN  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  thirteen  Martin 
Schiller  fell  ill.  The  strain  and  anxiety  of  his  work 
upon  the  opera  had  brought  him  to  such  a  state  of 
ill-health  that  he  was  unable  to  bear  the  cold  weather 
of  the  winter.  He  fell  ill  in  January.  He  had  spent 
the  day  roaming  about  the  forest,  where  everything 
was  as  silent  as  death,  where  everything  was  covered 
with  the  white,  hard  snow.  In  the  morning  he  set 
out  across  the  lake,  where  the  snow  lay  in  one  white 
clean  sheet.  His  foot  sank  in  it  at  every  step,  but  with 
monotonous  going  forward  he  crossed  to  the  far  side. 
The  long  string  of  his  footmarks  lay  behind  him.  He 
left  the  open  and  went  in  under  the  trees,  where  the 
ground  was  bare  of  snow  except  small  patches.  There 
had  not  been  enough  to  cover  the  trees,  and  the  ground 
beneath  them.  Small  drifts  ran  up  to  the  trees  here 
and  there.  He  had  expected  the  forest  to  be  warm : 
it  was  cold  with  a  coldness  that  ate  into  his  heart.  He 
became  absolutely  cold.  He  had  expected  it  to  be 
sheltering  and  friendly :  it  was  silent,  still,  and  strange. 
The  whole  of  the  world  was  dead.  He  wandered  aim- 
lessly and  miserably  about  without  thought,  without 
hope,  without  will.    The  peahens  were  one  effort  from 

280 


SCHWARZWALD  a8i 

completion.  He  could  not  make  it.  For  two  months 
he  had  been  unable  to  add  a  single  phrase  to  his  opera ; 
for  two  months  he  had  been  as  empty  of  genius  as 
other  men ;  he  was  merely  a  corpse,  barely  sustained  by 
life.  He  put  his  hand  out  to  touch  the  trees,  but  they 
were  cold ;  he  stooped  to  touch  the  ground,  but  it  was 
cold  as  the  grave.  The  warm  soft  smell  that  he  had 
expected  was  not  there  among  those  boughs.  He  had 
come  out  for  understanding  and  companionship  but 
found  none.  The  people  indoors  were  of  no  use  to 
him.  There  they  sat  like  painted  figures,  and  did  not 
in  the  least  understand  how  empty  and  how  exhausted 
he  was.  He  was  more  exhausted  to-day  than  he  had 
ever  been  in  the  whole  of  those  long  four  years.  After 
every  effort  of  a  few  days  he  had  lived  weeks  in  stupid, 
blind  indifference,  broken  by  a  craving  to  be  physically 
violent  and  by  fierce  childish  tempers.  To-day  he  had 
no  desire  for  anger,  no  desire  to  hurt  and  kill;  even 
the  desire  to  break  the  bonds  of  human  limitations  that 
had  maddened  him  to  rage  in  his  former  long  days  of 
misery  did  not  strike  him.  He  felt  weary  and  his  head 
was  full  of  a  sickness  and  of  a  dull  eternal  pain;  to 
himself  he  seemed  surrounded  by  a  nauseating  flat 
stretch  of  mud  to  which  there  was  no  limit.  His  eyes 
were  blank,  his  brows  lowered  upon  them  in  a  frown, 
his  nostrils  contracted,  and  his  face  sucked  in  at  the 
cheeks.  Sometimes  he  opened  and  shut  his  mouth,  as 
if  he  had  a  taste  of  something  upon  his  lips.    He  was 


282  MARTIN  SCHULER 

both  hopeless  and  degenerate,  he  had  lost  his  look  of 
strength,  and  wore  instead  a  childish  look  of  wretched- 
ness and  despair.  He  had  come  out  without  an  over- 
coat. He  stood  as  long  as  twenty  minutes  at  a  time, 
examining  nothing,  with  his  eyes  towards  the  ground. 
As  the  day  advanced  the  sky  became  more  leaden  and 
the  frost  more  keen.  Nothing  moved.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  world  were  very  close  up  under  the  clouds,  and 
had  ceased  to  go  around.  The  long  black  and  white 
landscape,  in  which  everything  seemed  wooden,  small, 
and  close  at  hand,  was  mere  long  white  ridges  of  snow 
and  black  patches  of  trees.  The  trees  were  so  black 
that  only  where  they  stood  isolated  from  the  mass  of 
the  forest  could  their  forms  be  distinguished.  To- 
wards three  o'clock,  about  the  time  when  the  sun  would 
have  set,  Martin  came  out  again  upon  the  lake  in  a 
gloomy  place  where  the  trees  grew  close  down  to  the 
edge.  A  few  flakes  of  snow  fell  slowly  down  out  of 
the  sky;  few,  silent,  and  steady;  they  seemed  more 
inevitable  than  death,  more  weird  and  foreboding  than 
the  howl  of  wolves,  more  sinister  than  ravens.  He 
walked  a  few  steps  oiit  upon  the  snow-covered  ice,  and 
heard  a  long,  thin,  siren  cry  of  the  wind  vibrating  upon 
the  taut  frozen  air.  The  snowflakes  gathered  around 
him.  He  could  still  see  the  locality  of  his  home:  to- 
wards this  he  began  to  walk.  The  snowflakes  thick- 
ened, the  wind  veered  round  a  quarter  of  the  compass, 
and  came  from  due  north.    It  quickened.    The  siren 


SCHWARZWALD  283 

cries  from  behind  him  ceased  and  the  wind  blew  up 
into  his  face.  It  was  bitterly  cold,  colder  than  before. 
The  snow  hit  his  face  like  wool  and  suffocated  him ; 
with  his  hands  up  before  him,  he  struggled  through 
the  thick  drowning  snowflakes  towards  the  villa.  No 
step  seemed  to  bring  him  any  nearer;  he  thought  he 
was  in  the  same  place,  lifting  his  feet  up  and  down. 

At  last,  after  an  hour,  he  found  himself  at  the  fur- 
ther bank,  and  turning  instinctively  to  the  right  pres- 
ently came  to  his  little  landing  stage. 

The  inside  of  the  house  was  warm  and  pleasant;  a 
log  fire  glowed,  the  lamps  were  lit,  and  everything 
was  prepared  for  the  evening.  To  Martin  it  looked 
strange.  The  fire  seemed  without  animation,  the 
lamp  to  be  flat  and  not  the  author  of  the  light.  Sophie 
in  her  long  soft  scarlet  gown  made  by  Madame  Lucile, 
her  cheeks  red  with  the  heat  of  the  fire,  her  eyes  and 
her  sapphire  rings  black  and  sparkling,  seemed  a 
painted  image.  Wolf  in  his  tweed  jacket  and  flannel 
trousers  looked  like  a  husband  in  a  play.  Their  clothes 
seemed  as  out  of  keeping  with  reality  as  stage  clothes 
usually  do. 

"  Those  two  have  had  a  quarrel,"  said  Martin  to 
himself ;  "  why  does  the  wife  dress  herself  above  her 
station?" 

Suddenly  they  both  looked  up  at  him  where  he 
stood,  wet,  pale,  and  shivering.  They  ran  to  him ; 
Sophie  embraced  him  in  spite  of  her  beautiful  dress. 


284  MARTIN  SCHULER 

He  was  taken  to  the  fire,  kissed,  petted,  scolded,  and 
given  hot  coffee.  His  clothes  were  taken  off,  and 
Sophie  wrapped  him  in  a  soft  warm  rug. 

"  I  would  like  my  bed  in  here,'*  he  said. 

In  ten  minutes  he  found  himself  lying  in  the  middle 
of  a  wonderful  warmth,  staring  at  Sophie  and  at 
Wolf.  What  were  they  doing?  How  did  Sophie 
know  when  milk  was  boiling,  or  the  right  way  to  put 
the  sheets?  She  must  be  his  mother.  Yes,  that  was 
it,  she  was  his  mother.  She  sat  staring  into  the  fire 
all  night  so  it  seemed  to  him,  always  in  her  red  dress : 
all  night  or  a  hundred  nights,  he  could  not  tell  which. 

Up  and  down  his  mind  surged.  His  hands  became 
larger  than  his  body.  The  people  in  the  room  became 
as  small  as  pins.  He  had  an  idea  that  he  was  staring 
into  a  doirs  house  where  everything  was  strong- 
colored  and  perfectly  clear.  All  the  objects  in  the  room 
were  focused  as  if  seen  in  a  diminishing  glass;  each 
stood  out  clear  and  separate.  Martin's  eyes  had  the 
glazed  look  of  fever:  the  softness  of  his  surroundings 
had  gone  with  the  softness  of  his  eyes. 

In  the  middle  of  a  night  he  called  to  Sophie  and 
Wolf,  and  asked  them  whether  they  thought  he  was 
going  to  die.  He  himself  was  convinced  of  it.  He 
told  them  exactly  how  terrible  he  felt,  how  lonely  and 
deserted.    His  tongue  seemed  to  be  loosed  by  fever. 

"  And,"  he  added,  "  not  all  your  kindness,  not  all 
that  you  can  do,  nothinp:-  that  you  can  think  of  stirs 


SCHWARZWALD  285 

in  me  the  slightest  feeling.  I  do  not  care  for  you,  I 
feel  nothing  pass  from  you  to  me.  I  want  to  find 
somebody  to  gather  me  who  is  stronger  than  I  am. 
I  want  somebody  to  take  me  and  hold  me  upon  their 
arms  and  make  me  happy.  I  want  to  be  held  in  the 
dark  warm  arms  of  somebody  omnipotent,  who  will 
drive  away  all  these  ghosts.  I  used  to  think  that 
mothers  were  like  that  when  I  was  a  little  boy.  Do 
you  know,  I  used  to  cry  when  I  found  my  mother 
was  not  omnipotent,  not  all-loving  and  all- forgiving." 

Sophie  leaned  over  him  and  stroked  his  hair. 

"  No,''  he  said,  "  it  is  no  good — I  am  stronger  than 
you.  I  want  to  be  taken  away  out  of  myself  and 
put  to  sleep.  I  am  a  barrier,  I  am  on  the  outside,  and 
I  know  nobody  who  can  keep  the  wand  from  howling 
down  my  back.  The  abyss  is  just  behind  me  and  all 
of  you  are  pushing  me  into  it.  If  only  I  could  die.  I 
am  dying,  I  am  sure  I  am  dying,  I  am  sinking  into 
softness.    Sophie  and  Wolf,  I  am  going  down!  '* 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FOR  nearly  five  months  Martin  lay  in  his  bed 
in  a  weak  state,  half  between  sleep  and  wake- 
fulness. He  slept  nearly  the  whole  of  the  time. 
Several  times  he  tried  to  convince  Wolf  that  he  was 
about  to  die.  He  had  never  been  ill  before.  Sophie 
believed  him,  and  lived  in  a  continual  series  of  frights 
until  she  began  to  see  that  he  knew  nothing  about  him- 
self and  was  getting  better. 

His  personality  during  the  whole  of  his  illness 
seemed  large,  vague,  and  shadowy.  He  seemed  to 
spread  out  over  the  whole  house,  and  to  loom  up 
like  a  large  shadow  cast  by  a  candle  on  a  wall.  Wolf 
liked  nursing  him,  and  so  did  Sophie  after  a  fashion ; 
she  had  never  done  anything  useful  before.  They 
neither  of  them  dreamed  for  a  moment  of  letting  a 
professional  nurse  into  the  house. 

One  day  in  May,  Sophie  sat  sewing  at  the  window ; 
she  had  put  on  a  beautiful  white  muslin  dress  with 
frills  edged  with  dark  blue  thread.  She  never  failed  to 
look  as  exquisite  as  if  she  were  attending  a  ball.  Upon 
the  back  of  her  chair  hung  a  large  leghorn  hat  with 
dark  blue  silk  ribbons.  She  clothed  herself  well, 
partly  to  please  Martin,  and  partly  because  she  could 


SCHWARZWALD  287 

not  help  it.  From  time  to  time  she  put  down  her  sew- 
ing and  looked  out  across  the  lake.  The  water  was 
black  and  still  as  a  mirror,  and  the  day  calm  and 
beautiful. 

Sophie  sighed.  She  was  thirty  years  old.  There 
were  still  ten  years  of  good  life  before  her.  Life  in 
that  villa,  in  spite  of  her  real  devotion  to  Martin,  did 
not  agree  with  her.  Frequently  she  walked  to  the  other 
side  of  the  lake  to  stare  at  it,  and  to  stare  at  its  re- 
flection; when  she  had  stared  she  came  back  and  sat 
down  in  it.  That  was  as  near  as  she  ever  got  to  deep 
philosophical  thinking,  to  asking  the  question  of  her 
existence.  She  sat  sewing  an  undergarment  more  to 
kill  time  than  because  she  liked  it.  She  was  herself  in 
the  villa,  and  she  did  not  like  it.  In  Berlin  she  manu- 
factured herself  out  of  the  attitude  of  the  many  people 
around  her,  and  out  of  events.  Here  she  was  without 
people  and  nothing  ever  happened.  She  was  not  very 
clever  at  conjuring  something  out  of  nothing. 

Martin  turned  over  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  What  a  pretty  sight  Sophie  is.'* 

Am  I,  dear  one  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Silence  fell  again.  They  had  not  been  on  very  good 
terms  lately.  Such  terms  as  can  exist  between  an  ill 
man  and  a  well  woman  had  not  been  altogether  pleas- 
ant. One  of  them  found  the  other  a  little  tiresome. 
It  was  impossible  to  say  which. 


288  MARTIN  SCHULER 

Martin  spoke  again. 

"  Sweet  Sophie,  am  I  very  ugly?  " 

**  No,  of  course  not." 

"  Do  you  care  for  me  ?  " 

Sophie  put  down  her  sewing  and  came  to  him.  She 
was  moved.  She  bent  over  him  and  played  with  him. 
He  seemed  a  child  although  it  was  thirty-four  years 
since  he  had  been  born.  Presently  he  fell  asleep  and 
again  silence  fell  over  the  room.  Sophie  wanted  a 
friend,  she  wanted  to  see  some  other  creature  than  the 
sentimental  secretary,  who  never  let  her  do  any  of 
those  things  she  thought  essential  in  moments  of  crisis. 

She  went  to  the  window.  She  could  see  Wolf  in 
the  garden  tending  a  little  rockery  of  Alpine  plants, 
which  he  had  put  together  to  pass  the  hours,  when 
there  were  no  letters  to  be  written  and  no  battles  to 
be  met.  Wolf  never  fought  a  battle  against  Martin; 
he  only  endeavored  to  keep  his  feet.  He  was  smoking 
a  pipe  and  Sophie  despised  him.  His  conversation 
bored  her  terribly.  It  was  one  long  reminiscence.  The 
poor  man  had  found  nothing  new  to  talk  about  for  four 
years.  The  only  years  of  his  life  worth  living  seemed 
to  have  been  those  passed  at  Cambridge.  The  unutter- 
able stupidity  of  most  of  his  actions  there  made  her 
feel  white  inside.  She  had  no  sense  of  the  ordinary, 
the  normal,  and  the  everyday.  Wolf  was  ordinary  and 
everyday.  His  position  in  regard  to  Martin  was  from 
his  point  of  view  a  wonderful  piece  of  luck.    Actually 


SCHWARZWALD  289 

it  was  a  calamity,  it  killed  his  personal  life.  He  sat  in 
the  grass  of  the  garden,  which  was  hardly  yet  green 
with  spring,  holding  an  Alpine  plant  dictionary.  She 
saw  him  crawl  on  his  knees  and  inspect  a  gentian, 
finger  a  flowering  moss,  stroke  a  saxifrage.  He  was 
unable  to  put  his  knowledge  to  no  use ;  he  was  writing 
a  little  book  on  rock  plants  for  amateurs,  with  colored 
photographic  plates  made  by  himself. 

Sophie  got  up,  went  out  of  the  garden  window,  and 
crossed  the  grass  to  the  corner  where  Wolf  and  the 
chauffeurs  had  created  a  false  moraine.  She  wished 
to  see  the  gentian.  She  bent  down  beside  Wolf  and 
said: 

"  How  are  your  flowers  ?  " 

Wolf  looked  up  in  delight.  His  labors  had  so  far 
passed  unnoticed  except  by  his  subordinates.  He 
answered : 

"  Very  well,  thank  you.  Look  at  the  beautiful  spiked 
petals  of  this  gentian.  It  is  a  new  kind  from  a  man 
I  know  at  Schaffhausen.  He  makes  expeditions  into 
the  Alps  for  the  originals.*' 

"  Can  you  not  see  him,  alpenstock  and  all  ?  "  cried 
Sophie,  "  with  fish  basket  and  pressing  book,  like  the 
caricatures  in  Simplicissimus !  Picture  one — he  sets 
out,  bids  farewell  to  gross  wife  and  family;  picture 
two — the  edelweiss,  and  so  on.  Of  course  he  falls 
down  a  crevasse  in  the  end.*' 

Wolf  laughed.    His  friend  at  Schaffhausen  was  only 


ago  MARTIN  SCHULER 

an  horticultural  correspondent :  he  had  never  seen  him. 
When  Wolf  chuckled  he  sniggered  and  shook  all  over 
because  he  was  not  at  all  accustomed  to  doing  it. 

"  Do  you  ever  pick  them  ?  "  said  Sophie. 

"  That  would  be  a  very  great  shame,"  he  replied ; 
"  the  plant  is  very  delicate." 

She  felt  a  little  sentimental  this  afternoon,  probably 
because  the  air  was  warm  and  full  of  the  tired  feeling 
of  spring.    She  said : 

"  Does  he  care  for  flowers?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.    He  used  to  have  them  at  Berlin.'* 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  Sophie  laughed. 

"  There  we  two  have  been  here  for  so  long  and  do 
not  know  any  little  thing  about  him.  Could  we  not 
dig  up  that  blue  thing  and  put  it  in  a  pot  ?  "  She  felt 
very  affectionate  towards  Martin  and  wanted  to  pay 
him  delicate  attentions. 

Wolf  was  delighted.  He  went  indoors  for  a  bowl 
and  quickly  made  a  little  rockery  of  glacier  chips  and 
sand  in  it  for  the  gentian. 

Sophie  held  it  up  to  her  face  and  said : 

"  It  is  very  pretty." 

Like  children  they  carried  it  indoors.  Martin  was 
awake. 

"Will  this  amuse  you?"  said  Wolf,  bending  over 
him ;  "  we  thought  you  might  care  for  it." 

Sophie  thought  it  was  kind  of  Wolf  to  include  her 
in  his  speech. 


SCHWARZWALD  291 

Martin  took  it  eagerly  with  a  boyish  gesture.  "  How 
beautiful,"  he  said,  "how  beautiful.  I  believe  if  I 
could  lie  in  the  midst  of  flowers  I  should  recover.  I 
have  always  been  accustomed  to  flowers.  There  are 
never  any  here  in  this  house." 

He  put  the  bowl  beside  his  pillow  and  lay  on  his 
side  for  hours  inspecting  the  very  intricate  arrange- 
ment of  the  plant. 

"This  is  better  than  one  finds  in  Switzerland,"  he 
said. 

"  It  is  an  horticultural  creation,"  answered  Wolf. 

Later  on  he  said  that  the  color  of  the  blue  filled  his 
throat  with  something  and  that  he  felt  madly  happy 
inside.  He  never  wished  to  see  anything  to  do  with 
music  again;  he  wanted  to  lie  in  the  garden  and  be 
happy.  He  thought  the  gentian  reminded  him  of  his 
favorite  Rudi:  he  loved  everything  Rudi  loved — 
Babette,  the  cat,  mountain  climbing,  chamois  hunting, 
and  the  glacier  of  the  Jungfrau.  He  could  see  it  now 
like  a  pale  blue  clouded  emerald  glistening  in  her 
bosom.  He  had  seen  the  Jungfrau  at  night  like  a 
folded  veil  in  the  sky,  pure  white  in  the  moonlight,  and 
in  the  shadows  the  colors  of  the  night  sky.  He  kept 
the  gentian  pot  close  to  his  eyes,  for  by  half  shutting 
his  eyes  he  could  turn  the  bits  of  Alpine  rock  into  peaks 
and  the  cracks  between  them  into  ravines.  There  was 
one  like  the  Matterhorn.  He  thought  he  saw  Grindel- 
wald  below  him,  over  the  edge  of  his  eye,  as  if  he  were 


292  MARTIN  SCHULER 

lying  down  upon  a  rock  high  above  it  and  looking  over. 

Sophie  watched  him. 

"  What  are  you  playing  at?  "  she  said  after  a  long 
time  of  silence. 

"  My  dearest,"  said  Martin  looking  round,  "  come 
and  look  at  the  Matterhorn." 

He  made  her  bend  over  him,  and  put  her  eye  down 
by  the  pot.     She  could  faintly  see  the  mountain. 

"You  darling  child,"  she  said,  suddenly  overcome 
with  a  revelation  of  understanding,  "  you  darlingkin, 
you  Martin ! " 

"Am  I  your  child?"  Martin  turned  over  towards 
her— "ami?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  smothering  him  with  kisses, 
"  you  are  the  dearest  in  the  world." 

He  pulled  himself  up  under  her  arms,  and  let  his 
cheek  lie  in  the  warmness  of  her  neck. 

He  began  to  talk  again. 

"How  small  everything  is,  and  lovely;  how  soft 
like  the  little  birds.  You  smell  sweetly  to  me  like  the 
sweetest  honey.  Your  skin  is  soft  like  little  birds' 
feathers.  I  think  you  are  my  nest,  my  mother,  my 
charming  mother."  He  pushed  his  face  closer  into 
her  arms  and  sighed.  "  Am  I  too  old  and  rough  to  love 
all  your  faithfulness  to  me?  How  patient  you  have 
been,  how  good.  I  would  like  to  put  flowers  round 
your  hair.  Darling  Sophie,  I  am  thirty-four:  am  I 
too  old  to  feel  the  sweetness  of  love?    I  never  knew 


SCHWARZWALD  293 

anything  so  sweet  and  pretty  as  your  breath.  I  will 
never  be  cruel  to  you  again;  I  will  always  love  you 
most  tenderly,  my  little  lamb.  Tell  me  I  am  your  little 
one  too." 

"  You  are  my  little  one.'* 

"  But  " — Martin  moved  in  the  bed — "  I  must  finish 
those  peahens.  My  peahens  must  be  finished.  Your 
little  boy  is  lost  without  them." 

"  You  shall,  you  shall,"  cried  Sophie,  who  was  full 
of  tears.  All  the  shortcomings  of  her  life  were  being 
forgiven.     "  You  shall  indeed  finish  them." 

"  When  ?  "  he  cried,  "  when  ?  I  must  know."  Sophie 
looked  wildly  up  for  inspiration. 

"  Next  year,"  she  answered,  "  in  the  spring." 

Martin  believed  her.  He  lay  down  in  bed  again, 
and,  turning  over,  went  to  sleep  with  her  hand  in  his. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MARTIN  SCHULER  gradually  recovered  from 
his  illness  and  began  to  go  about  again.  His 
health  continued  to  be  bad;  he  suffered  from 
his  old  pains  in  the  stomach  and  from  a  weakness  of 
the  heart,  brought  on  by  so  much  leaning  forward  over 
a  writing-table.  He  always  wrote  with  the  edge  of 
the  writing-table  pressed  against  his  breast  below  his 
heart. 

He  looked  old  and  sallow  and  slow.  His  figure 
had  lost  its  beautiful  grace.  He  seemed  less  tall  and 
thicker.  His  vitality  seemed  to  have  gone  altogether. 
Through  the  summer  he  wrote  scarcely  anything  at 
all,  and  never  said  a  word  about  his  opera. 

He  finished  and  elaborated  a  little  army  of  songs 
and  boudoir  pieces  from  ideas  that  had  fallen  off  the 
peahens,  and  wrote,  in  imitation  of  the  successive  mas- 
ters, a  musical  revue  which  he  called  "  Bachravellian- 
stiicke."  "  Backravellianstiicke ''  had  a  great  vogue. 
It  was  certainly  brilliantly  clever.  His  little  army 
sold  well  and  was  edited  in  various  Albums  which  were 
given  to  the  young  to  get  to  Parnassus  upon. 

Sophie  frequently  went  to  Berlin,  and  he  seemed  un- 
easy when  she  was  away,  although  he  never  said  that 

394 


SCHWARZWALD  295 

he  missed  her.  It  probably  never  occurred  to  him  that 
he  had  not  everything  he  wanted.  Wolf  read  to  him 
every  evening;  he  read  the  "Ice  Maiden"  of  Hans 
Andersen  seven  times  and  "  The  Cossacks  '*  twice. 
Martin  liked  "  The  Cossacks."  He  shared  the  forest 
feeling  and  the  charm  of  the  large  beautiful  heroine  in 
the  pink  shirt  with  the  hero.  He  thought  the  pink 
shirt  must  be  pleated  in  a  thousand  pleats  with  a  pale 
green  edge.  Frequently  he  was  moody  and  ill- 
humored,  but  Wolf  was  blind  to  everything  in  his 
master  but  his  divinity.  The  large  divinity  of  Martin 
filled  the  whole  forest,  just  as  Wolffs  small  divinity 
had  once  filled  a  small  circle  around  his  head.  Wolf's 
adoration  for  him  was  beyond  the  reach  of  thought. 
When  he  sailed  upon  the  lake  alone  in  his  skiff,  Wolf 
stood  on  the  shore  like  a  dog  watching  him  the  whole 
of  the  time.  He  would  see  him  lean  over  and  look 
down  into  the  water  for  his  Ice  Maiden,  and  he  knew 
he  was  seeking  inspiration.  The  water  was  clear  upon 
the  surface  and  dark  and  green  below.  Frequently 
Wolf  feared  he  would  fall  over  the  edge  of  the  boat 
and  drown. 

Sometimes  Martin  went  by  himself  into  the  woods, 
as  in  the  old  times.  He  was  quiet  by  himself,  and 
melancholy;  he  hardly  thought  at  all,  and  wandered 
among  the  trees  with  the  quiet  resignation  of  a  monk. 
They  showered  their  silver  light  upon  him  as  he  walked 
below  in  the  dark  and  beautiful  green  shadows.    He 


296  MARTIN  SCHULER 

used  most  frequently  to  go  to  those  parts  of  the  forest 
where  the  trees  were  very  old  and  tall,  where  their 
sumptuous  boughs  hid  the  sky  in  a  heaven  of  green 
clouds.  Here  the  romances  of  the  world  seemed  to 
have  come  together,  the  ghosts  of  all  the  fairies  and 
lovers  that  had  ever  lived.  Adam's  form  of  red  clay 
stole  softly  with  an  ivory  Eve  about  the  tall  pillars  of 
the  trees — Venus  herself,  marble  and  everlasting,  sur- 
rounded by  a  thousand  Cupids  like  the  dream  of  Titian 
held  herself  upon  a  rock  under  the  canopy  of  pines. 
All  the  Pans,  shepherds,  fauns,  and  nymphs  of  men's 
innumerable  thoughts  passed  riotously  by  after  a 
Dionysius.  Fairies  and  heroes,  princes  and  princesses, 
and  every  happy  and  more  romantic  form  of  imaginary 
being,  could  be  seen  there  riding  down  the  glades. 

Martin  stood  upon  a  knoll  and  watched  them.  He 
was  looking  for  his  prince  and  his  romantic  notions 
in  the  past,  but  they  all  lay  in  his  own  manuscript 
awaiting  the  last  act  of  creation:  unborn  and  in  the 
future. 

Day  followed  day,  and  all  the  time  he  waited  in  a 
negative  and  hopeless  state  that  was  neither  happy  nor 
unhappy  for  some  unforeseen  event  to  come  down  upon 
him  like  golden  rain,  and  fill  him  with  a  blind,  raging 
energy. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

COUNTESS  VON  SEBALTZ  took  a  house  in 
Munich,  and  at  this  house  she  determined  to 
make  Martin  pass  the  winter.  She  utterly  re- 
fused to  live  at  Tittersee,  cut  off  from  the  world  in 
a  forest  of  snow. 

One  afternoon  when  November  had  come  again  she 
sat  dreaming  in  front  of  the  fire  in  the  sympathetic 
art  study  of  the  villa.  The  fire  glowed  upon  her  lovely 
violet  dress,  and  cast  her  shadow  upon  the  ceiling, 
large  and  dark.  Martin  was  standing  at  the  window 
humming  an  indefinite  melancholy  song.  Outside,  the 
first  snow  of  winter  was  beginning  to  fall  thin  and 
slow  over  a  black  landscape.     It  was  almost  dark. 

Presently  Martin  turned  and  looked  at  her.  His 
satisfaction  in  the  color  of  her  dress  gave  him  a  mo- 
ment's happiness ;  a  gleam  shot  through  him  and  faded 
away.  He  came  forward  and  touched  the  silk.  She 
seemed  more  wonderful  to  him  than  she  had  ever 
done  in  all  her  days.  Since  the  moment  of  his  con- 
valescence, when  he  had  depended  upon  her,  she  had 
become  for  him  something  quite  extraordinary  and 
different  from  before.  Once  he  had  loved  her  because 
her  gayety  and  beauty  had  been  the  gayety  and  beauty 

397. 


298  MARTIN  SCHULER 

that  were  necessary  to  him.  When  he  no  longer 
wanted  any  of  those  things,  but  deep  understanding, 
he  had  found  nothing  in  her.  He  did  not  cease  to  love 
her  after  a  fashion  because  any  change  of  emotion  in 
the  terror  and  agony  of  creation  had  never  occurred 
to  him.  After  his  tenderness  towards  her  during  his 
recovery  he  had  created  for  himself  something  new  in 
her.  She  had  accepted  it  and  allowed  it.  It  was  not 
beyond  her  power.  He  loved  tenderly,  without  pas- 
sion, for  the  first  time  in  his  life;  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  had  been  tenderly  loved  by  somebody  who 
depended  upon  her.  As  far  as  she  was  able  she  ap- 
preciated it.  Frequently  he  raged  at  her,  but  his  rage 
had  lost  the  terrifying  vividness  of  his  former  rages. 
He  no  longer  flashed  lightning  at  her  and  made  her 
think  he  was  insane. 

To-day  he  touched  her  silk  dress  and  loved  her. 
She  was  considering  how  she  could  induce  him  to  leave 
Tittersee,  for  she  understood  that  if  he  were  to  fall 
ill  there  she  would  not  be  able  to  stay  away.  She  was 
too  conventional  to  desert  him,  and  not  strong  enough 
to  shift  the  burden  he  had  put  upon  her  off  her 
shoulders,  and  yet  the  thought  of  the  next  winter  was 
as  hateful  to  her  as  the  thought  of  hell.  She  turned 
sick  at  the  idea,  and  her  whole  body  felt  unutterably 
weary  with  the  uneasy  fear  of  another  long  imprison- 
ment. 

The  magnificent  house   in   Munich   was   already 


SCHWARZWALD  299 

furnished  and  the  fires  every  day  burned  brightly  on 
the  hearth  ready  for  his  reception.  Aired  linen  was 
already  laid  upon  the  bed  and  flowers  put  on  the 
table. 

Martin  threw  himself  at  her  feet,  and,  laying  his 
head  in  her  lap,  began  crying  for  nothing,  like  a  child. 
She  began  to  stroke  his  hair  and  the  back  of  his  neck 
where  his  brain  ended;  she  could  see  the  movements 
of  his  shoulders  under  his  coat.  She  put  her  hand  on 
his  coat :  it  was  warm  and  rough  and  entirely  opposed 
to  all  the  silken  smoothness  of  her  own  personal  life. 
Becoming  sentimental,  she  thought  of  all  the  differ- 
ences she  knew  between  men  and  women;  they  were 
not  many,  but  on  the  other  hand  she  did  not  recognize 
any  likenesses.  Men  and  women  were  therefore  ut- 
terly different  for  her  upon  a  few  generalizations.  She 
pitied  Martin ;  she  was  convinced  that  the  peahens  were 
waste  paper,  that  his  work  was  a  failure,  and  that  there 
was  absolutely  nothing  in  the  idea.  She  had  not  the 
least  glimmering  of  understanding  of  anything  except 
of  the  management  of  men  and  of  social  success. 

She  began  to  talk  to  him  as  if  she  were  telling  him 
a  story. 

"  I  have  taken  a  house  in  Munich.  It  is  furnished 
and  warm.  There  is  a  big  room  there  with  blue 
silk  curtains  and  a  fire.  It  is  a  very  fine  house,  the 
kind  of  house  I  know  that  you  will  like.  You  will  feel 
comfortable  and  happy  and  better  there.    Perhaps  the 


300  MARTIN  SCHULER 

peahens  are  there,  perhaps  they  are  perching  on  the 
walls  waiting  for  you." 

Martin  put  his  arms  around  her  waist  and  looked  up 
at  her.  He  shook  his  head  miserably  from  side  to  side 
and  said: 

"  But,  no,  they  have  gone  a  very  long  way  away 
from  me.  They  have  altogether  flown  away  to  the 
moon,  or  to  Jupiter." 

"It  is  comfortable  and  warm,"  repeated  Sophie; 
"  My  Martinkin,  let  your  small  Sophie  show  it  to  you." 

Their  intimacy  had  not  failed  to  produce  familiar 
conversation  between  them. 

"My  small  girl,"  said  Martin  affectionately,  "I 
will  come  and  have  a  look  at  it." 

Sophie  had  the  sense  not  to  move  immediately :  she 
fingered  the  frown  upon  his  forehead,  and  wiped  his 
tears  with  her  handkerchief. 

"  My  ancientkin  must  come  with  me  and  let  Sophie 
show  it  to  you ;  it  would  please  her  so  much." 

She  continued  to  play  with  his  face.  He  kissed  her 
fingers. 

"  Describe  it  again,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  think  about 
it." 

"  It  is  in  the  Konigstrasse.  From  the  balcony  of  your 
room  you  can  see  the  Palace.  The  bedroom  is  a  small 
room  at  one  end ;  T  had  it  made  gold  and  pale  blue  for 
you,  because  you  like  bright  colors." 

Martin  rose ;  warmth  seemed  to  have  come  into  his 


SCHWARZWALD  301 

life ;  he  felt  a  desire  for  luxury ;  the  art  study  seemed 
dirty  and  worn. 

"  Get  my  coat/'  he  said;  "  I  will  go." 

Sophie  ran  and  told  the  chauffeur,  who  was  drinking 
coffee  in  the  kitchen,  to  get  the  car.  She  ran  into  the 
kitchen  herself.  Everything  had  been  prepared  for 
two  days  for  instantaneous  departure;  she  knew  how 
much  a  moment's  delay  might  mean  to  her  arrange- 
ments. She  ran  to  her  room  and  put  on  a  small  cherry- 
colored  hat  with  a  cherry-colored  sparrow  in  flight  upon 
the  top.  When  she  heard  the  car  she  flung  herself 
into  an  ermine  coat,  and,  screaming  at  the  valet,  hur- 
ried him  down  with  Martin's  black  felt  hat  and  large 
military  coat. 

In  a  minute  she  ran  down  herself,  and,  creating  pur- 
posely an  air  of  excitement,  bustled  Martin  into  the 
car.  They  got  in.  The  snow  was  now  falling  fast. 
The  car  moved  away  from  the  house  and  soon  turned 
into  the  road  to  Munich.  When  the  white  Rolls- 
Royce  had  slipped  away  from  sight  Wolf  put  the  mass 
of  luggage  upon  the  old  Mercedes  to  follow  after. 

When  the  car  had  got  well  past  the  railway  station, 
Martin  put  his  hand  on  Sophie's  and  said : 

"  I  know  what  it  was  that  I  suffered  from.  That 
house  was  too  small  to  finish  the  peahens  in." 

With  that  the  car  sank  slowly  down  to  Munich  out 
of  the  cold  world  of  snow  and  pine-trees  and  black 
winds. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  house  in  the  Konigstrasse  was  a  marvel  of 
simple  beauty,  such  as  the  French  and  Viennese 
alone  understand.  It  was  furnished  without  the 
aid  of  any  art  furnishing  company.     Here,  in  a  lofty 
room,  large  enough  for  a  queen's  antechamber,  deco- 
rated with  stately  curtains  of  blue  silk  and  beautiful 
plaster  moulding,  furnished  with  a  vast  polished  wood 
writing-table,  an  orange  brocade  divan,  several  chairs, 
and  a  full  sized  grand  piano.  Count  von  Schiiler  fin- 
ished his  best  and  most  beautiful  work.     That  winter 
he  had  received  the  Nobel  prize,  because  the  world 
thought  his  day  was  over,  and  that  having  brought  gay 
happiness  to  millions  of  human  beings,  he  deserved  the 
reward  for  benefiting  mankind.     The  Emperor  gave 
him  a  Countship,  partly  to  thank  the  Swedish  nation, 
and  to  show  that  he  himself  patronized  the  arts.    The 
change  of  place  and  the  accident  of  public  honor  had  a 
great  eflFect  upon  him,  as  it  frequently  has  upon  sensi- 
tive people. 

All  of  the  past  four  years  Martin  Schiller  left  behind 
him  at  his  villa  by  the  lake ;  he  took  away  nothing  with 
him  except  the  manuscripts  of  the  peahens.  For  the 
first  weeks  that  he  spent  in  his  new  and  beautiful  home 


SCHWARZWALD  303 

he  sat  still  and  silent,  seeing  nobody  but  his  secretary 
and  his  friend,  and  going  out  infrequently  to  look  at 
the  city.  At  the  end  of  three  weeks  he  roused  himself, 
hired  a  music  secretary  and  a  copyist,  and  began  to 
make  the  final  effort  necessary  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  task.  He  sat  at  work  for  weeks  together.  His 
health  got  worse  every  day,  but  every  day  as  the  years 
fell  upon  him — for  in  a  week  he  lived  a  twelvemonth — 
he  became  more  calm,  more  dispassionate,  patient,  and 
kind.  He  sat  steadily  writing  and  gazing  into  the  past. 
His  creative  intellect  was  at  rest;  his  selective  intellect, 
his  extraordinary  technical  powers  which  throughout 
all  his  work  had  been  amazing,  and  his  memory,  alone 
were  at  work.  He  wrote  entirely  from  the  memory 
of  his  dreams,  and  from  the  copy  of  those  visionless 
thoughts  that  in  the  past  years  had  with  pain  and  labor 
expressed  themselves  under  his  hand.  The  vision  of 
his  peahens  was  far-off  and  dark,  as  if  reflected  in  the 
water  of  the  lake,  but  he  had  not  the  slightest  difficulty 
in  perceiving  it,  in  hearing  those  few  sounds  that  he 
still  wished  to  hear.  He  worked  with  a  sense  of  co- 
ordination and  of  artistic  balance,  he  was  making  of 
his  absolute  genius  a  perfect  and  supreme  expression. 
Throughout  the  days  of  his  creation  he  had  thought 
mainly  of  the  life,  yet  always  of  the  form.  When 
the  form  lay  ready  under  his  hands  for  the  last  com- 
pression, he  thought  mainly  of  the  form,  yet  always 
of  the  life.    As  before  the  form  had  been  continuously 


304  MARTIN  SCHULER 

before  his  eyes,  so  now  the  life  was  continually  in  his 
mind. 

Everything  was  smooth  and  easy,  for  the  selective 
power  was  one  of  those  gifts  with  which  he  had  been 
born. 

In  March  he  sat  for  another  three  weeks  doing  noth- 
ing but  stare  into  the  fire,  and  from  time  to  time  call 
to  the  secretaries.  They  came  frequently  and  showed 
him  copies  of  the  score.  He  would  not  allow  a  blemish 
or  a  correction  to  spoil  those  sheets.  They  thought 
him  very  fussy  and  tiresome.  For  three  weeks  he  sat 
and  shuddered  by  the  fire,  wrapped  up  in  a  rug  with  a 
large  cat  upon  his  knees.  He  shuddered,  not  from  cold 
but  from  weakness  and  fatigue.  Wolf  had  found  the 
cat  straying  upon  the  stairs,  and  Martin  had  appro- 
priated it.  Wolf  wanted  the  cat  himself  as  a  pet,  but 
he  gave  it  up  to  Martin,  whom  he  felt  that  he  had  lost 
altogether  that  winter. 

At  the  end  of  this  time,  Martin's  chief  secretary 
came  to  him  with  a  clean  bundle  of  manuscript  and 
said,  "  That  is  all,  Herr  Count." 

Martin  wrote  his  name  upon  the  first  and  last  sheets 
and  ordered  him  to  ring  the  bell.  When  the  footman 
appeared,  he  said,  "  Tell  all  to  come.'* 

While  they  were  coming  he  took  from  his  pocket 
Werner's  old  manuscript  and  his  own  first  draft  that 
he  had  made  five  years  before  in  the  villa.  He  had  a 
vision  of  the  villa  standing  upon  the  March  snows 


SCHWARZWALD  305 

among  the  trees  of  the  forest  like  an  empty  box. 

The  servants  all  appeared,  following  Wolf  and 
Sophie,  who  thought  that  he  must  be  going  to  die. 

There  he  sat  with  the  cat  upon  his  knees,  looking 
quite  diiferent  from  his  former  self — gentle,  kind,  and 
simple.  When  Sophie  came  to  him  he  took  her  hands, 
and,  looking  down  at  his  manuscript,  which  was  beside 
him  on  a  chair,  said,  "  It  is  finished." 

An  emotion  carried  her  away,  and,  communicating 
itself  to  Wolf,  left  them  both  speechless  and  still. 

Martin  evidently  did  not  notice  it. 

He  turned  his  head  to  the  servants  and  said  in  slow 
and  emotional  tones,  "  I  have  finished  my  work  to-day; 
do  you  all  finish  yours  and  take  a  holiday.  May  you 
all  be  blessed." 

The  butler  smiled  at  the  footman,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  looked  at  the  chef.  They  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  to  forsake  the  house  all  at  once  for  a 
day's  joy  was  impossible. 

In  a  minute  Martin  said : 

"And  now  I  want  the  car;  I  want  to  go  to  the 
photographer's ;  I  want  to  go  out  to  a  cafe ;  and  do  you, 
cook,  make  me  a  feast  for  Friday  for  twenty  per- 
sons." 

He  took  Sophie  and  Wolf  with  him  in  the  car,  and 
carried  the  cat  in  his  arms,  who,  with  sleepy  su- 
periority, was  not  in  the  least  affected  by  anything 
that  went  on. 


3o6  MARTIN  SCHULER 

After  visiting  a  photographer's  they  went  to  tea  at 
a  new  and  fashionable  cafe,  where  everybody  stared 
at  them,  and  particularly  at  Sophie,  who  wore  as  usual 
the  most  beautiful  clothes.  After  this  they  went  to  an 
exhibition  of  paintings  in  a  curious  black  and  white 
gallery,  where  each  picture  was  hung  in  a  panel  of 
fluted  gray  silk.  Before  some  were  little  statuettes 
upon  white  wooden  pedestals,  before  others  painted 
wooden  flowers  in  painted  wooden  bowls.  A  peasant 
Madonna  had  imitation  candles  dripping  simulated  wax 
on  each  side  of  her. 

Martin  liked  this  exhibition;  he  thought  it  extra- 
ordinary that  people  could  do  such  wonderful  things, 
for  it  was  years  since  he  had  seen  anything  of  the 
kind. 

Upon  Friday  night  he  gave  a  dinner  party,  to  which 
he  invited  from  Berlin  the  Countess  von  Ardstein, 
Hirchner,  and  Konstanz,  together  with  many  of  his 
old  friends.  To  his  great  joy  his  photographs  came 
back  at  five  o'clock,  and  he  spent  an  hour  fussing  over 
their  choice,  and  tying  them  up  with  white  paper  and 
ribbons  to  give  to  his  guests.  He  made  the  cook  tell 
him  all  there  was  to  eat,  and  the  butler  all  there  was  to 
drink.  He  ordered  a  grotesque  amount  of  flowers  and 
tokens  of  sweets  from  the  best  shops. 

That  night,  at  the  beginning  of  dinner,  he  presented 
the  finished  score  of  his  peahens  formally  to  Sophie, 


SCHWARZWALD  307 

who  publicly  kissed  it  among  a  thousand  hand-shakes, 
glass-raisings,  and  compliments.  Everybody  was 
ecstatic  over  the  photographs. 

"  Am  I  not  a  magnificent  old  fellow  ?  "  cried  Martin. 
The  guests  all  agreed,  and  his  long  health  was  drunk. 

"  May  you  live  for  ever  and  ever,"  cried  Sophie 
with  dramatic  feeling,  and  everybody  echoed,  "  Yes, 
for  ever  and  ever,  our  immortal  singer." 

They  cried  this  rather  because  they  loved  him,  and 
because  the  atmosphere  suggested  it,  than  because  they 
at  all  suspected  what  the  peahens  were  like. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ON  June  1st,  19 14,  Martin  Schiiler's  opera  was 
produced  at  the  Berlin  Opera  House. 
It  is  remarkable  that  it  was  exactly  the  right 
length.  It  needed  no  adaptation  or  disembowelling  to 
speak  of.  All  his  friends  were  wild  about  it;  the 
actors,  the  orchestra,  the  scene-shifters,  although  they 
did  not  understand  it  any  more  than  his  friends,  caught 
the  enthusiasm.  Perhaps  Hirchner  and  the  Countess 
von  Ardstein  alone  had  an  idea  of  what  it  meant. 

Count  von  Schiller  was  present  at  the  First  Night. 
He  sat  in  a  box  hung  with  laurels  and  roses.  His 
hair  was  oiled,  his  hollow  cheeks  and  rigid  jaws  were 
clean-shaven,  and  he  wore  a  new  evening  suit  with  a 
soft  linen  shirt  and  a  velvet  coat.  On  his  left  breast 
was  a  decoration,  on  his  marriage  finger  was  a  ring 
set  with  an  emerald  surrounded  by  brilliants.  This 
ring  had  been  given  to  him  by  Hella  von  Rosenthal. 
He  had  recently  begun  to  wear  it  again.  His  heart 
was  void.  The  peahens  were  no  longer  his ;  they  had 
flown  out  into  the  world. 

In  the  front  corner  of  the  box  sat  Sophie  von  Se- 
baltz,  at  the  back  stood  Wolf;  on  either  side  of  Martin 
sat  two  of  his  friends  talking  to  him. 

308 


SCHWARZWALD  309 

"Ah,"  said  Konstanz,  the  man  at  his  left  hand, 
"have  courage,  dearest  friend.  The  most  beautiful 
work  in  the  world  will  stir  their  hearts  to  hell  depths 
and  heaven  heights." 

Hirchner  sat  at  Schiller's  right  side  with  one  hand 
on  his  shoulder  and  the  other  grasping  his  right  hand 
so  that  the  ring  on  the  marriage  finger  cut  his  palm. 
He  secretly  feared  that  "  The  Peahens  "  was  above  the 
heads  of  the  general  public,  but  he  said  in  rolling  ac- 
cents : 

"  It  is  going  to  be  wonderful,  glorious,  colossal,  an 
ever-to-be-remembered,  altogether  magnificent  suc- 
cess. Ah,  look  at  the  faces  turning  their  eyes  upon 
you !  You  are  recognized.  Permit  us  to  support  you, 
dear  friend,  you  must  stand." 

Cheers  filled  the  Opera  House.  Like  a  child  Schiiler 
did  as  he  was  bidden.  He  stood  erect  in  the  box  and 
bowed,  supported  by  his  friends,  who  only  half  rose 
in  order  to  give  him  the  supremacy  in  height.  Every- 
body shouted  and  clapped.  He  had  been  a  great  fa- 
vorite in  the  old  days.  Sophie  clapped  also.  Wolf  let 
his  nature  out  in  one  loud  shout. 

The  orchestra  began  the  overture.  With  the  first 
notes  the  group  in  the  box  melted  away  to  the  corners. 
Countess  von  Ardstein  bustled  in  and  sat  down. 
Sophie  sat  in  the  front  corner  of  the  box  in  a  flame- 
colored  dress  of  gauze.  She  looked  as  lovely  as  she 
had  ever  done.    She  leaned  very  much  on  the  front  of 


3IO  MARTIN  SCHULER 

the  box  and  let  her  right  arm  lie  over  the  edge.  She 
gazed  straight  down  at  the  dark  people  below  her :  with 
her  fingers  she  played  with  her  pearl.  She  felt  very 
lonely.  She  wished  Martin  would  put  out  his  hand 
to  her  or  touch  her.  There  she  sat  reclined  in  a  beau- 
tiful pose  staring  down  into  the  abyss.  She  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  that  anything  was  being  performed. 

Wolf  stood  at  the  back  of  the  box,  his  attention 
riveted.  It  seemed  to  him  as  he  gave  himself  to  the 
music  that  the  light  upon  the  stage  came  out  of  Mar- 
tin's mind  like  a  searchlight,  and,  widening  out  over 
a  piece  of  heaven,  concentrated  itself  again  in  his  own 
brain.  He  thought  that  if  Martin  had  not  been  there 
the  whole  spectacle  would  vanish,  and  the  sounds  of 
music  drop  to  silence.  Hirchner  sat  beside  him  with 
his  legs  crossed,  looking  like  a  man  of  the  world,  but 
his  mind  was  soaring  to  the  highest  heights,  and  he 
felt  that  he  had  been  born  only  to  hear  the  wonder  of 
that  night.  The  Countess  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
back  of  Martin's  head.  Konstanz  saw  his  soul  swim 
like  a  golden  carp  in  the  fish  ponds  of  Elysium. 

Count  von  Schiiler  himself  stared  at  the  stage,  his 
whole  nerves  supporting  the  whole  of  the  performance. 
Every  slight  technical  mistake  broke  something  in  him. 
During  its  progress  he  suffered  everything  that  he  had 
ever  suffered  during  his  labors  on  it,  and  went  again 
through  every  ecstasy,  through  every  disappointment; 
as  the  acts  followed  one  another  he  held  his  heart 


SCHWARZWALD  3" 

still  for  the  climax.  His  beautiful  and  perfect  work 
ravished  his  soul  out  of  him;  he  never  had  heard  or 
seen  anything  to  be  compared  with  it;  it  exceeded  his 
dreams;  all  the  loveliness  of  his  whole  life  was  there. 
Once  he  smiled  at  his  young  Wagnerian  dreams  and 
saw  a  bridge,  slender  as  a  rainbow,  stand  over  his  life 
from  his  twentieth  year  till  now.  He  went  back  seven 
years  to  the  top  of  the  bridge  and  looked  down  at 
Leipsic  and  Berlin  and  the  Black  Forest.  The  millions 
of  episodes  of  his  life  lay  below  him.  He  was  thou- 
sands of  hours  above  them  in  the  air.  "  Here  am  I," 
he  thought,  "  and  I  have  safely  crossed  by  this  bridge ; 
how  slender  and  how  beautiful  and  how  white.  I  have 
made  it  and  it  is  my  own  support.  I  suppose  it  was 
necessary  for  my  body  to  go  by  land ;  only  at  the  end 
can  we  cross  by  the  complete  bridge  back  to  the  be- 
ginning." He  looked  down  the  far  side  towards 
Heidelberg.  Under  the  far  end  of  the  bridge  flowed 
the  Neckar.  He  saw  the  pavilion  upon  the  castle  hill 
shining  with  electric  lights.  For  some  time  he  stood 
up  there  upon  the  top  of  the  bridge  in  contemplation 
of  the  beauty  of  the  universe ;  he  understood  all  crea- 
tion and  the  smallest  actions  of  living  things.  Sud- 
denly he  found  himself  sitting  in  a  box  at  the  Opera 
House  of  Berlin.  It  was  the  last  act.  He  was  await- 
ing the  sensation  of  the  million  falls  that  he  had  so 
often  had.  Unfortunately  the  actors  were  not  quite 
up  to  their  task.    They  failed  to  produce  the  true,  the 


312  MARTIN  SCHULER 

absolute  sensation.  The  audience  also  did  not  appre- 
ciate the  climax.  The  orchestra  alone  carried  them- 
selves away  by  their  own  playing.  Hirchner  moved, 
his  heart  torn  out  of  his  body  by  the  marvellous 
perfection  of  the  music;  Wolf  wept,  amazed  at  the  in- 
comprehensible before  him ;  Sophie  dreamed,  still  lean- 
ing in  her  comer,  of  things  she  did  not  know. 

As  the  last  chord  sounded,  Countess  von  Ardstein 
touched  Hirchner  and  Konstanz.  They  looked  at  Mar- 
tin, electrified  at  her  contact.  Martin  had  risen  and 
was  leaning  forward  with  his  hands  upon  the  edge  of 
the  box;  he  seemed  to  be  about  to  speak,  but  sank  again 
heavily  into  his  chair.  Hirchner  half  sprang  to  his 
feet.  The  Countess  detained  him.  Sophie  was  star- 
ing blankly  at  Martin.  She  alone  could  see  his  face. 
Absolute  silence  fell  over  the  theater.  Sophie  shrank 
back  into  the  curtains  and  raised  her  hands  in  an 
action  of  self -protection.  In  a  few  seconds  the  audi- 
ence began  to  go  quickly  out  of  the  theater  and  every- 
body knew  that  Martin  Schiiler  was  dead. 

His  body  was  taken  home  to  the  house  of  the  Ard- 
steins  and  laid  upon  a  bed.  He  lay  in  the  center  of  a 
scene  that  he  would  have  appreciated.  The  rest  of 
Wolf's  life  crouched  in  a  black  stricken  form  beside 
the  bed.  Sophie,  to  whom  nothing  was  comprehensi- 
ble, wept  by  him,  supported  in  the  arms  of  Hirchner. 
Konstanz  and  the  Count  von  Ardstein  stood  in  the 


SCHWARZWALD  313 

background  with  the  Countess,  who  was  playing  with 
her  lorgnon.  In  the  silence  and  the  pale  light  of  the 
breaking  day  all  those  people  felt  that  they  had  now 
for  ever  finished  with  life  and  that  with  the  first  gleam 
of  the  rising  sun  they  would  all  vanish  away. 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

By  ROMAIN  ROLLAND 

Translated  from  the  French  by  Gilbert  Cannan.  !n 
three  volumes,  each  $1.75  net. 

This  great  trilogy,  the  life  story  of  a  musician,  at  first 
the  sensation  of  musical  circles  in  Paris,  has  come  to  be  one 
of  the  most  discussed  books  among  literary  circles  in  France, 
England  and  America. 

Each  volume  of  the  American  edition  has  its  own  indi- 
vidual interest,  can  be  understood  without  the  other,  and 
comes  to  a  definite  conclusion. 

The  three  volumes  with  the  titles  of  the  French  volumes 
included  are: 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Dawn — Morning — Youth — ^Revolt 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  Market  Place — Antoinette — The  House 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:  JOURNEY'S  END 
Love    and    Friendship — The    Burning    Bush — ^The    New 

Dawn 

Some  Noteworthy  Comments 
*•  'Hats  off,  gentlemen — a  genius.'  .  One  may  mention  *Jean-Chris- 
tophe'  in  the  same  breath  with  Balzac's  'Lost  Illusions';  it  is  as  big 
as  that.  .  It  is  moderate  praise  to  call  it  with  Edmiind  Gosse  *the 
noblest  work  of  fiction  of  the  twentieth  century.*  .  A  book  as 
big,  as  elemental,  as  original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to- 
day. .  We  have  nothing  comparable  in  English  literature.  .  "— 
Springfield  Republican. 

**If  a  man  wishes  to  understand  those  devious  currents  which  make 
up  the  great,  changing  sea  of  modern  life,  there  is  hardlv  a  single 
book  more  illustrative,  more  informing  and  more  inspiring.  '—Ci«rr*nl 
Opinion. 

"Must  rank  as  one  of  the  very  few  important  works  of  fiction  of  the 
last  decade.  A  vital  compelling  work.  We  who  love  it  feel  that  it 
will  live." — Independent. 

"The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or 
from  any  other  European   country,   in  a  decade." — Boston    Transcript, 

A  32-page  booklet  about  Romain  Rolland  and  Jean-Chris- 
tophe,  with  portraits  and  complete  reviews,  on  requ4St. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

{PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS     ON     MUSICIANS 

BY  ROMAIN  ROIXAND 

Author  of  "Jean-Christophe,"  and  called  by  W.  J.  Hender- 
son •'  The  most  interesting  of  living  critics  of  Music  and 
Musicians." 

SOME  MUSICIANS  OF  FORMER  DAYS 

Translated  from  the  fourth  French  edition  by  Mary  Blaik- 
LOCK.    $1.50  net. 

The  Place  of  Music  in  General  History;  The  Beginning  of 
Opera;  The  First  Opera  Played  in  Paris;  Notes  on  Lully,  and 
shorter  but  vivid  papers  on  Gluck,  Gretry,  and  Mozart. 

".  .  .  One  of  the  greatest  of  living  musical  scholars.  He  is  also  the 
most  interesting  of  contemporaneous  writers  .  .  .  Written  with  bril- 
liant scholarship,  with  critical  insight  and  with  flashes  of  human  sym- 
gathy  and  humor.  .  .  .  Every  lover  of  music  should  hasten  to  give 
imself  the  pleasure  of  a  persual  of  this  delightful  volume  which  radi- 
ates learning,  keen  judgment  and  sympathetic  humor." — New  York  Sun, 

MUSICIANS  OF  TO-DAY 

Translated  from  the  fifth  French  edition  by  Mary  Blaiklock. 
With  an  Introduction  by  Claude  Landi.  324  pp.  $1. 50  net, 
Berlioz's  stormy  career  and  music,  Wagner's  "Siegfried" 
and  "Tristan,'*  Saint-Saens,  Vincent  D'Indy,  Hugo  Wolf, 
Debussy's  "  Pell6as  and  Mllisande,"  **  The  Musical  Move- 
ment in  Paris,"  and  an  absorbing  paper  on  the  Concert-Music 
of  Richard  Strauss,  etc. 

"  May  surely  be  read  with  profit  by  the  musically  uneducated  and 
educated."— P-fti/ii*  Hale  in  the  Boston  Herald. 

HANDEL 

Translation  and  Introduction  by  A.  Eaglefield  Hull. 
With  musical  extracts,  four  unusual  illustrations,  and  an 
index.     210  pp.    $1.50  net. 

"...  Written  with  enthusiasim,  but  with  judgment  as  well.  The 
story  of  Handel's  life  is  told  simply,  but  with  feeling  and  alacrity  of 
phrase  .  .  .  will  repay  reading.  .  .  r— Springfield  Republican. 

BEETHOVEN 

Translated  by  A.  Eaglefield  Hull.    $1.50  net. 

This  is,  perhaps,  the  most  famous  of  the  non-fiction  musical 
books  by  the  author  of  "Jean-Christophe."  The  translator 
has  added  to  Mr.  Rolland's  famous  monograph,  in  which  he 
treats  of  Beethoven  both  as  musician  and  hero,  so  much  in- 
teresting additional  material  that  this  volume  almost  doubles 
the  size  of  the  original. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


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NOV   111933 


APR  14   1931 


IB  33560 


UNIVERSITY  QF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


